Beyond the Looking Glass
by kendrat199
Summary: Beyond the Looking Glass takes you into a world were no mutants exist, but the world isn't peachy either. Ororo and Remy were married and she's dealing with the loss rather hard. Guest Star: Tony Stark/Iron Man. Twists and turns, here we come!
1. Beyond the Looking Glass Intro

_Into the Looking Glass-_**Introduction**

**Disclaimer**_: _I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me.

**Genre**_: _Mystery/Romance/Drama/ and whatever else I want. This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.

**Rated**_: _T (Maybe it will become M later on).

**Inspiration**_: _Jeffrey Deaver's _Twisted._ This introduction is the hook, it is almost verbatim from his short stories (except minor cuts, additives, and name changes-Barbara is his creation though). If I get positive reviews, I will add more chapters (I plan on having this becoming more than 1 chapter, perhaps 5 at least), and that will be of my own creation. I have a basis of how this will go.

**My Mission**_: _I want you to hate and love me. I want you to say aloud, "WTF, why did she do that? I thought she liked that character." And as much as it hurts you, it hurts me more, but sometimes you have to give things up to make a good story :3.

**Characters**: Ororo Munroe, Remy Lebeau, and a special guest :o

**What did I use for appearances?**: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.

**Song**_: 18 and life, Skid Row_

**Reviews**_: _Yes, please! With construct criticism if you hate it, with love if you like it. Please point out errors (I had to recover my OS and it deleted my microsoft word ). Enjoy!

**Thank You's!**: Thank you so much **Elfkid** and **xlokix** for your revisions, corrections, feedback. It makes me want to get started on chapter 2 without having any one else read it, haha. This is for you two :). Thanks again!

-kendra.

* * *

_Ricky was a young boy, He had a heart of stone.  
Lived 9 to 5 and worked his fingers to the bone.  
Just barely got out of school, came from the edge of town.  
Fought like a switchblade so no one could take him down.  
He had no money, oooh no good at home.  
He walked the streets a soldier and he fought the world alone  
And now it's_

Ororo Munroe turned her car onto Route 232, which would take her from Portsmouth to Green Harbor, twenty miles away.

She took in the darkening horizon thinking: This was the same road that she and Remy had taken to and from the mall a thousand times, carting back necessities, silly luxuries and occasional treasures.

The road near which they'd found their dream house when they'd moved to Maine seven years ago.

The road they'd taken to go to their anniversary celebration last May.

Tonight, though, all those memories led to one place: her life without Remy.

The setting sun behind her, she steered through the lazy turns, hoping to lose those difficult but tenacious thoughts. _Do not think about it! Look around you_, she ordered herself. _Look at the rugged scenery: the slabs of purple clouds hanging over the maple and oak leaves_-some gold, some red as a heart.

_Look at the sunlight, a glowing ribbon draped along the dark pelt of hemlock and pine__;__ at the absurd line of cows, walking single file in their spontaneous day; the end commute back to the barn__;__ at the stately white spires of a small village, tucked five miles off the highway. And look at you: a twenty-four-year-old woman in a sprightly silver Toyota, driving fast, toward a new life._

A life without Remy.

Twenty minutes later she came to Dannerville and braked for the first of the town's two spotlights. As her car idled, clutch in, she glanced to her right. Her heart did a small 'thud' at what she saw: a store that sold boating and fishing gear. She'd noticed in the window an ad for some kind of marine engine treatment. In this part of Coastal Maine you couldn't avoid boats. They were in tourist paintings and photos; on mugs, T-shirts and key chains. And, of course, there were thousands of the real things everywhere: vessels in the water, on trailers, in dry docks, sitting in front yards- The New England version of pickup trucks on blocks in the rural South. But what had struck her hard was that the boat pictured in the ad was now looking at was a Chris-Craft. A big one, maybe thirty-six or thirty-eight feet. Just like Remy's boat. Nearly identical, in fact, it had the same colors, and even the same configuration. He'd bought his five years ago, and though Ororo thought his interest in it would flag (like that of any boy with a new toy) he'd proved her wrong and spent nearly every weekend on the vessel, cruising up and down the coast, and fishing like an old cod deckhand. Her husband would bring home the best of his catch, which she would clean and cook up...

"Ah, Remy..." she sighed and didn't know how that small plea left her lips with such ease.

She swallowed hard and inhaled slowly to calm her pounding heart.

A honk behind her. The stoplight had changed to green. She drove on, trying desperately to keep her mind from speculating about his death. The Chris-Craft rocking unsteadily in the turbulent gray Atlantic… Remy overboard… his arms perhaps flailing madly, his panicked voice perhaps crying for help…

Oh, Remy...

Ororo cruised through Dannerville's second light and continued toward the coast. In front of her she could see, in the last of the sunlight, the skirt of the Atlantic, all that cold, deadly water. The water responsible for life without Remy…

_Think about Chris instead!_

Chris O'Banien, the man she was about to have dinner with in Green Harbor, it'd be the first time she'd been out with a man in a long while. She'd met him through an ad in a magazine. They'd spoken on the phone a few times and, after considerable waltzing around on both their parts, she'd felt comfortable enough to suggest a meeting in person. They'd settled on the Fishery, a popular restaurant on the wharf. Chris had mentioned the Oceanside Cafe, which had better food, yes, but that was Remy's favorite place; she couldn't meet Chris there. So the Fishery it was. As she thought back to their phone conversation last night, she remembered Chris had said to her, "I'm tall and pretty well built, with willowy brown hair."

"Okay, well," she replied nervously, "I'm 5'11, probably the tallest girl in there, I'll be the one that sticks out the most, and if you still can't find me, I'm wearing a purple dress."

Thinking about those words now, thinking how that simple exchange typified single life, meeting people you'd only known over the phone.

She had no problem with dating. In fact, she was looking forward to it, in a way. She'd met her husband when he was just graduating from undergraduate school, while she had graduated from her high school. They'd gotten engaged almost immediately; that'd been the end of her social life as a single woman. But now she'd have some fun. She'd meet interesting men, and she'd begin to enjoy sex again. Even if it was work at first, she'd try to just relax. She'd try not to be bitter, try not to be too much of a widow.

But even as she was pondering this, her thoughts went somewhere else: Would she ever be able to fall in love again? The way she'd once been to completely in love with Remy? And would anybody else love her completely?

At another red light, Ororo reached up and twisted the mirror toward her, glancing into it. The sun was now below the horizon and the light was dim but she believed she passed the rearview-mirror test with flying colors: full lips, flawless chocolate-hued skin, sapphire eyes, and of course the hook line: white hair. Then, too, her body was almost model-type- with curves in the right places, but not to suggest a doctor's scalpel work. _Hell yes_, she told herself. She'd find a man who was right for her. Somebody who could appreciate the survivor within her (not Reba McEntire's Survivor or the epitome of the Gay Man's anthem by Gloria Gaynor).

Perhaps maybe she'd find somebody who'd love her academic side- her writing, her poetry and her love of teaching, that she had developed after being taught by the best, of course. Or somebody who could laugh with her -at movies, at sights on the sidewalk, at both the funny jokes and the dumb ones. This sort of thinking made her remember how she loved laughing (and how little of it she'd done lately).

Then Ororo Munroe thought: No, wait, wait...She'd find a man who loved everything about her. But then the tears started and she pulled off the road quickly, surrendering to the sobs.

"No, no, no..."

She forced the images of her husband out of her mind. The cold water, the gray water...Five minutes later she'd calmed down, wiped her eyes dry, and reapplied makeup and lipstick (which she hardly needed anyway).

She drove into downtown Green Harbor and parked in a lot near the shops and restaurants, a half block from the wharf.

A glance at the clock. It was just six-thirty. Chris had told her that he'd be working until about seven and would meet her at seven-thirty but she'd come to town early to do some shopping- a little retail therapy. After that, she'd go to the restaurant to wait for Chris. But then she wondered uneasily if it would be all right if she sat in the bar by herself and had a glass of Merlot. _What the _hell're_ you thinking? Of course it'd be all right, _she thought sternly).She could do anything she wanted. This was _her_ night. _Go on, girl, get out there. Get started on your new life._

_18 and life __you__ got it  
18 and life you know  
Your crime is time and it's  
18 and life to go_

Unlike upscale Green Harbor, fifteen miles south, Yarmouth, Maine, is largely a fishing and packing town and, as such, is studied with shacks and bungalows whose occupants prefer transport like F-150's, Japanese half-tons and worn out SUV's, of course. But just outside of town is a cluster of nice houses set in the woods on a hillside overlooking the bay. The cars in these driveways are mostly Lexus and Acura; here they had sport leather interior and GPS systems, unlike their downtown neighbors, who sported rude bumper stickers or Jesus slogans. The neighborhood even has a name: Cedar Estates.

In his tan overalls Tony Stark now walked up the driveway of one of these houses, glancing at his watch. He double-checked the address to make sure he had the right house then rang the bell. A moment later a pretty woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was thin, her hair a little frizzy, and even through the screen door she smelled of alcohol. She wore skintight jeans and a white sweater.

"Yeah?"

"I'm with the cable company." He said, showing her the I.D. "I have to reset your converter boxes."

She blinked. "The TV?"

"That's right."

"They were working yesterday." She turned to look hazily at the gray glossy rectangle of the large set in her living room. "Wait. I was watching CNN earlier. It was fine."

"You're only getting half the channels you're supposed to. The whole neighborhood is. We have to reset them manually. Or I can reschedule if--"

"Nah, it's okay. Don't want to miss _COPS_. Come on in."

Tony walked inside and, sensing her eyes on him, eyes that pierced into his personal space, he shifted to the side. It appeared that good looks were the bane of his existence. He got this a lot. His career wasn't the best in the world and his Armani suits and top-of-the line attire didn't necessarily reflect his vocation, still... He'd been told he "exuded" some kind of masculine energy. He liked to think he just had a lot of self-confidence.

"You want a drink?" she asked

"Can't on the job."

"Sure?"

"Yep."

Tony in fact wouldn't have minded a drink. But this wasn't the place for it. Besides, he was looking forward to a nice glass of spicy Pinot Noir after he finished here. It often surprised people that somebody in his line of work liked-and knew about-wines.

"I'm Barbara!"

"Hi, Barbara."

She led him through the house to each of the cable boxes, sipping her drink as she went.

"You have kids," Tony asked, nodding at the picture of two young children on the table in the den. "They're great, aren't they?"

"If you like nuisances," she muttered.

He clicked buttons on the cable box and stood up. "Any others?"

"Last box's in the bedroom. Upstairs. I'll show you. Wait..." She went off and refilled her glass. then joined him again. Barbara led him up the stairs and paused at the top of the landing. Again, she looked him over.

"Where are your kids tonight?" he asked.

"At the bastard's," she said, laughing sourly at her own joke. "We're doing the joint custody thing, my ex and me."

"So you're all alone here in this big house?"

"Yeah. Pity, huh?"

Tony didn't know if it was or not. She definitely didn't seem pitiful.

"So," he said, "which room's the box in?" they'd stalled in the hallway.

"Yeah, sure, follow me," she said, her voice suddenly low and seductive. In the bedroom she sat on the unmade bed and sipped the drink- she placed a finger and ran it along the rim.

He found the cable box and pushed the 'on' button of the set. It crackled to life. _CNN_ was on.

"Could you try the remote?" he said, looking around the room.

"Sure," Barbara said groggily. She turned away and, as soon as she did, Tony came up behind her with the rope that he'd just taken from his pocket. He slipped it around her neck and twisted it tight, using a pencil for leverage. A brief scream was stifled as her throat closed up and she tried desperately to escape, to turn to scratch him with her nails. The liquor soaked the bedspread as the glass fell to the carpet and rolled against the wall. After a few minutes of a hard struggle, she was dead.

Tony sat beside the body, catching his breath. Barbara had fought surprisingly hard. It had taken all his strength to keep her pinned down and let the garrote do its job. He pulled on latex gloves and wiped away whatever prints he'd left in the room. Then he dragged Barbara's body off the bed and into the center of the room.

He pulled her sweater off, undid the button of her jeans. But then he paused. _Wait_. _What was his name supposed to be_? Frowning, he thought back to his conversation last night. _What'd he call himself_? Then he nodded. That's right. He'd told Ororo Munroe his name was _Chris O'Banion_. A glance at the clock. Not even seven P.M. Plenty of time to finish up here and get to Green Harbor, where the bar had a decent Pinot Noir by the glass and a certain someone to meet. He unzipped Barbara's jeans then started tugging them down to her ankles.

_Tequila in his heartbeat, His veins burned gasoline.  
It kept his motor running but it never kept him clean.  
They say he loved adventure, "Ricky's the wild one."  
He married trouble and had a courtship with a gun.  
Bang Bang Shoot 'em up, The party never ends.  
You can't think of dying when the bottle's your best friend  
And now it's _

Ororo Munroe sat on a bench in a small, deserted park, huddled against the cold wind that swept over the Green Harbor wharf. Through the evergreens swaying in the breeze, she watched a couple lounging in the enclosed stern of the large boat tied up to the nearby dock. Like so many boat names, this one was a pun: _Maine Street_.

She'd finished her shopping, buying some fun lingerie (wondering, a little discouraged, if anyone else would ever see her wearing it), and had been on her way to the restaurant when the lights of the harbor- and the gently rocking motion of this elegant boat-caught her attention. Through the plastic windows on the rear deck of the Main Street, she saw the couple sipping champagne and sitting close together or rather snuggling. A handsome pair-he was tall with an athletic build, plenty of brown locks, and she, a curvaceous brunette and pretty. Through the laughter and talking, it was obvious they were flirting like crazy, though the girl did better at hiding her wantonly open mannerisms. Then, finishing their champagne, they disappeared down into the cabin, the teak door slamming shut.

Thinking about the lingerie in the bag she carried, thinking about resuming dating, Ororo again tried to imagine Chris O'Banion and wondered how this evening would go. A chill hit her making her stand up and head into the restaurant.

_Several Minutes passed..._

Sipping a glass of fine Chardonnay (and sitting boldly at the bar by herself-_way to go, girl!_), Ororo let her thoughts shift to what she might do for work. She wasn't in a huge hurry. There was the insurance money, and the savings accounts too, while the house was nearly paid for. But it wasn't that she really needed to work. It was that she wanted to. Perhaps this was the time for a little change in style, like teaching, or perhaps even writing. Maybe she could get a job for one of the local newspapers, or she might even try a business venture. She remembered the times Remy would tell her about some of the things he was doing at the company (AKA Worthington Labs) and she'd understood them perfectly. Ororo had a very logical mind and had been a brilliant student. If she'd gone on to graduate school years ago, she could've gotten a full scholarship for her master's degree, but of course if you have love, you don't need to have anything else, and if you don't have it, it doesn't matter much what else you have…

More wine.

She felt sad, then exhilarated... Her moods bobbed like orange buoys marking the lobster traps sitting on the floor of the gray ocean. The deadly ocean.

She thought again about the man she was waiting for in this romantic, candlelit restaurant. Then a moment of panic overtook her. Should she call Chris and tell him that she just wasn't ready for this yet? Go home, have another wine, put on some Mozart, light a fire;_be content with your own company_, she thought bitterly.

She began to lift her hand to signal the bartender for the check, when suddenly a memory came to her. A memory from life before Remy. She shook her head methodically, getting rid of the images. She knew that if she called Chris to cancel, she would have failed at something important. It would be like letting herself go back to those lonely and horrific images.

And then there he was- a good-looking, no, a great looking man. _Great body, _she thought_._ He carried himself with an air of confidence and that smirk of his must have gotten him in a few predicaments that he'd cherish later. Of course, the facial hair was another additive to the brownie points-that were solely based on physical appearance- he'd been given. He wore a dark suit and beneath it he wore a black T-shirt, not a white polyester shirt and stodgy tie you saw so often in this area.

She waved and he responded with a charming smile, walking up to her with an extended hand, "Ororo? I'm Chris," he said, greeting her with an extended hand.

_A firm grip_, she thought as she gave him back an equally firm handshake. He sat next to her at the bar and, after ordering a glass of Pinot Noir, he sniffed it with pleasure and then clinked his glass with hers. While they sipped, she was lost in a reverie at how she secretly enjoyed facial hair on men-Remy's stubble added to his attractiveness and her new guest's trimmed goatee (not one that an overly obese man, who was balding, would fashion nor a biker, no, he appeared to be a business man) enthralled her.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be late," she said. "Sometimes it's hard to get off work when you want to." Another sniff of wine. "I pretty much control my own hours," he said.

They chatted for a few minutes and then went to the hostess's stand. The woman showed them to the table he'd reserved, and a moment later, they were seated next to the window. Spotlights on the outside of the restaurant shone down into the gray water; the sight troubled her at first, thinking about Remy in the deadly ocean, but she forced her thoughts away and concentrated on Chris.

They made small talk. They talked about new gadgets, innovative technology hitting the market-she'd heard it all from her husband... and then conversation progressed to the weather, and about politics-at the domestic front and the international war brewing.

"Been shopping?" he asked, smiling. and nodding at the pink-and-white-striped bag she'd set beside her chair.

"Long underwear," she joked."It's supposed to be a cold winter," He laughed.

They talked some more, finishing a bottle of wine, then had one more glass each, though it seemed to her that she drank more than he did. She was getting tipsy. _Watch out, girl. Keep your wits about you_. But then she thought about Remy and drank down the glass.

Near ten P.M he looked around the emptying restaurant. He held her gaze with his eyes -brown met blue- and said, "How about we go outside?" Ororo hesitated. Okay, this is it, she thought to herself. You can leave, or you can go out there with him. She thought of her resolution, she thought of Remy. She said, "Yes, let's go."

_18 and life You got it  
18 and life you know  
Your crime is time and it's  
18 and life to go_

Outside, they walked side by side back to the deserted park she'd sat in earlier. They approached the same bench and they sat down, Chris close beside her. She felt his presence-the nearness of a strong man, which she hadn't felt for some time now. It was thrilling, comforting and unsettling all at the same time. They looked at the boat, the Main Street, just visible through the trees. They sat in silence for a few minutes, huddling against the cold.

Chris stretched. His arm went along the back of the bench, not quite around her shoulders, but she felt his muscles. How strong he was, she reflected. It was then that she glanced down and saw a twisted length of white rope protruding from his pocket, about to fall out. She nodded at it. "You're going to lose something."

He glanced down, picked it up, flexed the rope in his fingers, then unwound it.

"Tool of the trade," he said, looking at her querying frown. He slipped it back into his pocket. Chris looked back to the _Main Street_, just visible through the streets, at the couple now out of the bedroom and sipping champagne again on the rear deck. "That's him in there, the handsome guy?" he whispered, lips mere inches from her earlobe.

"Yes," Ororo said, "that's my husband. That's Remy."She shivered again from the cold-and the disgust- as she watched him kiss the petite brunette. She started to ask Chris if he was going to do it tonight-to murder her husband-but then decided that he, probably like most men of his profession, would prefer to speak in euphemisms. She asked simply, "When…?"

They were now walking slowly away from the wharf; he'd seen what he needed to.

"When?" Chris asked. "Depends. That woman in there with him? Who's she?"

"One of his little sluts, she was an intern... I don't know what position she's filled, now that she's climbed the ladder." she said through clenched teeth while continuing, "She goes by Anna, Anna Marie, I think."

"She's spending the night?"

"No, I've been spying on him for a month. He'll kick her out about midnight. He can't stand clinging mistresses. There'll be another one tomorrow. But not before noon."

Chris nodded. "Then I'll do it tonight. After she leaves." He glanced at Ororo. "I'll handle it like I was telling you-after he's asleep I'll get on board, tie him up and take the boat out a few miles. Then I'll make it look like he got tangled in the anchor line and went overboard. Has he been drinking much?"

"Is there water in the ocean?" she asked wryly.

"Good, that'll help. Then I'll drive the boat close to Huntington and take a raft back in. Just let her drift," he said, nodding at the Maine Street.

"You always make it look like an accident?" Ororo asked, wondering if a question like this was breaking some kind of hit man protocol.

"As often as I can. That job I did tonight I mentioned? It was taking care of a woman in Yarmouth. She's been abusing her own kids. I mean, beating them. 'Nuisances,' she called them. Disgusting. She wouldn't stop but the husband couldn't get the children to say anything to the police. They didn't' want to get her in trouble,"

"God, how terrible."

Chris nodded. "I'll say. So the husband hired me. I made it look like that rapist from Upper Falls broke in and killed her." Ororo considered this. Then she asked, "Did you...? I mean, you were pretending to be a rapist..."

"Oh, god, no," Chris said, frowning. "I'd never do that, I just made it look like I did. Believe me, it was pretty gross finding a used condom from behind that massage parlor on Knightsbridge Street."

_So hit men have standards_, she reflected._ At least some of them do._ She looked him over. "Aren't you worried I'm a policewoman or anything? Trying to set you up? I mean, I just got your name out of the magazine, _Worldwide Soldier_."

"You do this long enough, you get a feel for who're real customers and who aren't. Anyway, I spent the last week checking you out. You're legitimate."

If someone paying him 250,000 dollars to kill her husband can be called legitimate. Speaking of which...

She took a thick envelope out of her pocket and slyly placed it in his breast pocket where it disappeared along with the white rope that he had disposed of earlier.

"Chris...wait, you're name's not really Chris, is it?" she asked in hesitation.

"No, but it's the one I'm using for this job."

"Okay, well, Chris, he won't feel anything?" she asked. "No pain?"

"Not a thing. Even if he were conscious that water's so cold he'll probably pass out and die from shock before he drowns.

They reached the end of the park before Chris asked, "You're sure about doing this?" the images of their short-term marriage reflected in her mind: the trysts, the liaisons, the lies.. the guilty pleasures… he, who got violent whenever she brought up divorce because it interfered with the highly idolized image of the corporate man, the one who was a sick control freak

"Is there water in the ocean?" she said coolly.

Chris shook her hand and said, "I'll take care of things from here. Go home. You should practice playing the grieving widow." "I can handle that," Ororo said. "I've been a grieving wife for years."

Pulling her coat collar up high, she returned to the parking lot, not looking back at either her husband or at the man who was about to kill him. She climbed into her Toyota and fired up the engine, found some rock and roll on the radio-Remy's favorite genre to listen to-, turned the volume up high and left Green Harbor.

Ororo cranked the windows down, filling the car with sharp autumn air, rich with the scent of wood smoke and old leaves, and drove fast through the night, thinking about her future, about her life without Remy. The weather was nice, and she practiced to be in shock, but not hysterical when the cops would show up at her house. A small smirk graced her lips as she stared straight ahead...

_Accidents will happen" they all heard Ricky say  
He fired his six-shot to the wind that blew a child away._

* * *

_if asked, I will tell you why I had to do this to Remy Lebeau (it was painful for me, believe me)._


	2. Dangerous Liasons

_Into the Looking Glass-_**Dangerous Liasons**

Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**_: _I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me. Oh, and I'd be rich and could have scantily clad men feed me ice cream

**Genre**_: _Mystery/Drama/Comedy-or my attempt at it. You know what they say, through tragedy comes comedy. I added a few lines that made me laugh, but tried to maintain seriousness throughout the piece.

**Back to basics:** This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.

**Rated**_: _T (Maybe it will become M later on).

**Inspiration**_:_ Mad Men, Prisonbreak, The Godfather, The World is not Enough..

**My Mission**_: _I want you to like this chapter just as much as the first. I waited too long to write this so I think if I didn't procrastinate, it would've turned out better. I'm happy with it though. **To get a beta reader for this chapter because I know there's some issues.**

**Characters**: Ororo Munroe, Remy Lebeau, Warren Worthington, Anna Marie, and a few other characters up my sleeve.

**What did I use for appearances?**: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.

**Song**_: Arctic Ocean–Sinch (I changed it from 'Why Don't You Do Right', the previous one just didn't seem to fit as well as the ones in chapter 1,3,5)_

**Reviews**_: _Thank you so much **SailorPikaAngel**** Darlin****.****ORIONSTORM04****.****Elfkid** **Angel**. This is for you guys, enjoy!

-Kendra.

* * *

Stained and afraid that this won't ever go away  
Engulfed inside a blaze of memories  
And the strain of digging holes, is beginning to take it's toll

* * *

_Six years ago..._

Inside a swank New York City bar, men in suits sipped martinis and threw their heads back in laughter. Warren Worthington III, however, sat alone at a booth and scribbled words on a torn and used napkin next to an ashtray of crumpled cigarettes. When a waiter came by, Warren – the creative director for Worthington Industries – tried to convince him to convert from his choice of smokes, Winston, to his brand, Newport.

"Reader's Digest says it will kill you," the waiter said.

"Yeah," Warren paused, looked around the room, then took another puff..a deliberate move. Every hand at the bar held a cigarette. "I heard about that."

The bar had everything he hated: drunks, factory workers, and the worst, low-lives. His father's company was small; it manned only ninety staff employees on a good day without unions, including fifteen from the devoted family tree. Nepotism was at its finest. Getting hired because you were part of the "familia" so-to-speak wasn't uncommon, in fact, it was a benefit to the company to lower price ceiling wages and to not issue out medical/dental insurance to those you see at Oak Park every Sunday for a good-ol fashioned BBQ. Despite the latter of the label being called "Industries', it was in no shape to compete with any one corporation; it was a proverbial shack for the lower, middle class-if such a thing existed. He knew it would change, call it a man's intuition or unwavering doting, but he just knew...

You see when living in the flats there's two roads to go. You can either go with the drug dealers and see the most money you've ever seen in your life or you can go to the protectorates in your cul-de-sac. If you choose the second dissension, you might see half that of what you could get selling a pound of heroin to the crooked cops, but you could also get free protection from the other posers out there tryin' to move in on your turf. Fortunately, a third path opened along the way, that one being creativity and imagination-the sky wasn't the limit, everything was _limitless. Greed and the need for power was prevalent  
_

That night, Warren knocked on the door of a sultry artist, Kate. Despite her flirtations, he was all business. The trade commission had cracked down on tobacco health claims, and Warren was without a plan for tomorrow's meeting to keep the Newport account from leaving the industries: 'All I have is a crush-proof box and four out of five dead people smoked the brand." He asked to run some ideas past her, but when she unbuttoned her white blouse to reveal a lacy black bra, he decided to take a break from work for awhile. _Women clearly weren't meant to be trusted_.

Accompanied by an audience of three smooth-talking execs–he spoke angelically on the phone to his fiance. "I love you,"he remembered saying, -when men like him use to wear their hearts on their sleeves-, igniting chuckles from the men, whose only concern is planning a bachelor party. "'I'm giving up my life to be with you, aren't I?"

_I'm giving up my life of possibilities and fortune to settle down and be like every other blue collar worker in New England. _

The voice on the other end was tuned out, and then ended as he slammed the phone back on the receiver. _Back to business, business is key._

As the antacid fizzed in his glass of water, Warren stood in his corner office. When he reached to grab some files, a paper weight – labeled 'Warren Worthington II' – fell to the floor. He'll have his office soon enough...

He put it back in the drawer without much thought as Remy entered with a mock up of the new Newport ad. It was a sketching of a bare-chested man next to a white box with a red dot. The word Relax is at the top. As Remy stared proudly at his handy work and contemplated a pre-meeting drink, Moira – a researcher – came in to share her report that people's desire for cigarettes is actually a Freudian death wish, and that if you love danger, you should love smoking.

Remy, though not being a blood relative, was like family; he was invited to every picnic soiree, family meeting, business venture, and family reunions that were few and far in between. Their fathers had been close friends, both sharing vivid ambitions of wealth and powerful authority. They had more connection than any distant cousin.

On their way to a meeting with the proprietors of the Slavic-owned department store-an almost flee market-, they joined Jean-Luc Lebeau, the co-head of the company or an attempt at one, in welcoming The Newport family to the office. While everyone coughed through smoke rings, Jean-Luc advised that they were no longer allowed to advertise that cigarettes are danger-free and opened the floor to Warren's big idea.

Silence filled the room as Warren fumbled through papers and stammered over his words. Remy jumped up to fill the void, and he offered up the 'death wish' psychology from Warren's trashed report. Shocked by the 'you're-going-to-die-anyway' slogan, the Newport gentlemen got up to leave.

Just then, Warren had an epiphany. "Advertising is based on one thing," Warren said. "Happiness. Everyone else's tobacco is poisonous, but Newport's is 'filtered.'" Within moments, the Newport folk were sold.

From starting out as a pseudo transporting facility with the creation of minor ads for various corporations, Worthington Industries became a global corporation earning a net worth of ten billion a year.

With the passing of the late Worthington Sr. and the nod approval from the aging Jean-Luc, Remy and Warren embarked on a new franchise, selling anything from household products to new innovations of the future, to medical pace makers-they were living it high rate, demolishing the small businesses that their fathers once sported. The name was soon altered to _Worthington Labs_.

They had their fill of women-once he had inquired why one girl had not been married indicating that perhaps something was wrong with her internal plumbing, and she admitted that she'd never been in love, which he coldly remarked "The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. 'What you call love was invented by guys like me to sell hallmark lines." They had their fill of government subsidies, tax breaks, and a judicial leniency that didn't go unnoticed or unchanged. They split everything 50/50. Partners till they died.

_Now._

He looked upon the white sheet placed upon the cold, metallic table. This whole room smelled of alcohol, steam, and embalming fluid. It was all gray, gray shades that differed, but were nonetheless one color. It was chilling.

The coast guard found something _interesting._

"So..."

"That's him"

"COD...cause of"

"I know the acronym. Leave out the medical jargon"

"Drowning"

"That can't be. Remy's a licensed and experienced mariner. He knows the ocean like he knows the stock exchange!"

"Mr. Worthington, while I value you as a business man, you did not attend medical school, you have no knowledge of cadavers. Please let me finish. We found his lungs filled with sea water. But there's something else. We took out the liver and noticed that it absorbed some alcohol content. It's possible that the BAC was much higher, but at time of testing, which was eight hours ago, he was at .16. He died at approximately 1:50 am, leaving a time span of 11 hours. Obviously the freezing temperatures of the water caused him to go into shock, then unconsciousness, and his lungs eventually filled with water. "

"If his drinking content was fairly normal….16 is only 8 shots"

"If you call .16 normal"

He continued, "I've seen the man drown bourbon, whiskey, vodka, and tequila mix shots and still carry on business presentations, that's normal. He couldn't have gotten into a stupor and merely fall off the railing."

"I'm sorry Mr. Worthington, truly I am. Would you like to add to the obituary?"

"Leave that to his wife. Someone should go tell her. Why was I called to I.D the body? He has family."

"You were the first on his Emergency contact list"

Blue eyes stared onto pupils that almost seemed ablaze with fire, the water caused the fluids in the retina to die and result in a dull black hue. Everything was so fucking gray. Warren's lips pursed together in a tight line.

"I won't let her erase your life of possibility, our possibilities..."

The door slammed shut.

He and Remy were so misunderstood. Him being labeled 'angelic' with his blue eyes and blonde hair, though he was anything but, and Remy being coined 'Le Diable Blanc'. _Oh, how little the world knew._

* * *

And I saw this coming,

when you started running over my dreams but isn't it funny  
It eats at me slowly and I found redemption in suffering

* * *

_Ring...Ring_

"Of course, I realize the dire situation. He isn't taking cases at the mo-"

"No, I don't want to lose my job"

"Hey, if you can't talk to me nicely, I'll hang up right now-"

"You're who now? Please wait."

The young woman tapped her well-manicured fingernails along the desk as she blew her watermelon Bubble Gum. How dare that man interrupt her stories? If she had tons of money, was used to this hectic city, she'd cuss him out to high heaven.

"_How can you look at me when you're the father of her baby, Ryan_!"

"Yeah, how can you, after you nearly lost Roseanna when Craig put her in a coma?!" she shouted, her fingernails grasping the edge of her messy desk as she glared at the small fifteen inch screen.

She heard something from the receiving end..

"What? Oh, nothing, just static," Jubilation Lee cooed, putting him on hold with a elevator-styled melody playing in the background.

_15 minutes later..._

She heard a plethora of obscenities and threats but what was she to do? Not finish watching _As the World Turns_. "Yeah, totally not gonna happen," she said, walking down the corridor with a grim face-she's gonna catch hell for this.

" You have a call waiting on line 1"

"I don't take calls"

"He says you owe him"

"I don't owe anyone anythin' "

"He said he'll get me fired"

"Sucks for you. Let Mr. Genius get it"

"But Hank's already got a case load,' she bit her lip, her eyes watered, she prepared to win a nominee for best actress. "Wooooooooooooooooolvie!!"

"Okay, just get the hell outta my office and get ta work. I don't pay you to watch General Passionate World."

"It's As the World Turns and you're mixing it with General Hospital and Passions. Oh, and Wolvie?"

"What, kid?"

"I love you" she said, eyes big with promise and a little bit too much exertion, she'd be great for the soap operas she watched daily.

"OUT!" he growled. He picked up the phone.

"This better be good, bub."

"Where's your manners"

"At your mother's house. Did I ever mention how good in bed yer mom was"

"That's distasteful"

"Sorry, I can't be full of sugar, spice, and everything nice"

"Let's get to business. My partner died."

"Someone finally hired a hit on one of you guys, I was hoping I'd be the lucky sonofabitch."

"This is serious. I think his wife ordered it"

"Shit. Well, why would she do somethin' like that. Kill him, I mean? I dunno why I'm askin', she had to be loony t'even marry the guy..."

"Besides the dangerous liaisons and courting that Remy had done. He's had a few mistresses and she's threatened them a couple of times. There's more"

"Go on," he said, leaning back in his broken chair.

"During their engagement they decided that in case of divorce, they'd split 50/50"

"All women do that"

"...including our company. She was involved in financial backing during the early production of the company, so if he was killed..."

"You're thinkin' she's knocked him off fer some ownership of _Worthington Labs_?"

"Yes...so will you take it."

The P.I (a lovely acronym for private investigator) heard the plea in the man's voice and said. "No deal." He continued to hear other mutterings of possible evidence of motives to kill, but soon slammed the phone. He didn't need to read caller I.D to know the number, he's seen it so many times to remember it by heart. He pulled out a stogie from the weathered drawer, "Ah, perfection." He sat there enjoying the newly lit cigar, looking at all the brown's in the room: the brown leather seat, the brown mahogany door, the brown desk, the brown chairs. He was a lumberjack's fantasy.

He sighed. He abhorred these rich people's cases. Their complaints of abuse, illegal activities, and reports to spy on a cheating spouse were...like the rich snobs he catered to...fake and flawed in every way. He picked up the phone once more, tongue pushing the brown cigar to the other side of his mouth. He said nothing...

"I can pay"

"I know ye can." He sighed. _Once again_, _it's another worthless cause_, he thought.

* * *

And it's just like you to say,

I'd be better off without you anyway  
Now I'm stumbling through my words

and it's all your fault,

so feel guilty

* * *

_Knock, knock_

"Hello?"

"Ma'am," hats were tipped in respect.

"What's the problem... has Remy gotten into another bar fight. You can tell him that I am not going to transfer him bail money..."

"Ma'am.."

Blue eyes widened. "What..?" She looked frantically to the two police officers-this was standard procedure, but it still hurt like hell after all these years.

"Your husband drowned off the coast at approx. 1:50 am. The _Main Street _was found anchored..it appeared that it dragged him asunder. I'm so sorry." They knew where to look; it was as if a morbid artist drew a target at the floor. Strange how when one stares at the ground how they notice imperfections. So many fixtures and cracks in the hardened pavement.

Silence was worse than screaming. The two officers winced, after all these years they still had empathy.

"I...I..." Mouth agape. It hurt. She didn't think it would, but it did.

"We need you to come down to the station"

"What? Why?"

"To offer any answers to the questions asked. It looked like an accident, _but_ apparently Mr. Worthington Jr. doesn't think so."

She stopped listening after hearing the mentioning of her husband's cohort. She wished she had multiple disassociation disorder, it'd be easy to explain how one personality took over and ordered a hit on her husband and how another would completely forget and act so...so... pained. She knew she was supposed to stick with the script, but it was inevitable. Streams of crystalline tears ran along her face in an endless reviera, falling into a ravine of concrete and weeds.

She was led to a police car as neighbors began to approach their porches. Hearing sirens in an upper-state wealthy neighborhood could never go unnoticed.

It was an out of body experience. She and Remy were in their Maine summer house and now...and now, she was back home, alone.

She did not remember the ride towards the station nor the uttering of condolences, but she did remember hearing a card being pushed her way with the lettering "_Mrs. Grey, PhD. Psychiatrist and family counselor_." Bile began to usurp its way up her throat, threatening to spill along the Chief of police's weathered desk. She forced it back down, it burned.

"I know this is hard"

"I don't fathom you do" she said, later adding a "sir" at the end.

"The trustee will talk to you about the will if you'd like, he's only an hour away..."

"Perhaps another time.."

"I understand. Now, we know that this was a horrible result of not knowing when to put the bottle down, but there's questions that must be asked." He said, grabbing a notebook and tossing it to her.

"What's this?" she said glancing at the address.

" That's the address of the person asking the questions," was her only response.

On the card read _James Howlett, P.I_

She needed a drink...

_An hour later..._

She was dropped home and picked up once more, only being allowed to take a shower and "get herself together". And now, now she stared at the building that was labeled "detective agency" with a Sherlock Holmes feeling to it. This building located on Christopher Street and Avenue of Americas was the mark on the boulevard of perfection, making it highly valued, but not priceless. This inner area of Manchester was adorned by the rich. You had the salons who offered 400 dollar hair cuts, the finest five star restaurants like _Guilliam's_ and _Scott's Seafood and Grill_, and of course tailors that were the living thing of parasites-their victim, heavy wallets.

However, this little montage didn't fit the description of the adjacent buildings and their predecessors. It appeared that it was placed here as an accident, a cruel, yet unpractical joke.

The police car drove off, the men leaving a card when she was ready to be taken back-you never left the wife of a wealthy dead man, it wasn't abnormal to watch as they jumped off ten story buildings. She felt horribly numb.

"Hello. Do you like have an appointment?"

She stared at the girl, a charade of make believe secretary and she offered a small smile, despite recent events.

"Apparently, I'm assigned to Mr. Howlett."

"Oh, Wolvie. He'll be with you in a few moments. He likes to be alone for hours, just sitting in his broken down chair, not doing anything, but staring...sometimes-"

"Jubilation lee, please stop harboring this young lady with your incessant ability to talk verbatim from your dramas. I'm sorry, you know pubescent females with their wiles of knights in shining armor and evil twin brothers being, in a dual reality, the good twin, she's obsessed with soaps nonetheless," said a man with a pearly smile. He appeared twice her size in width and though he wasn't fat or chubby or any other synonym thereof, he was that muscular type, the type that got some people to confuse the two. He was a head taller than her 5'11, and she was impressed.

"I'm Henry McCoy, they call me Hank," he held out a hand in a familiar gesture of respect and openness. She needed that.

"Ororo Monroe," she shook his hand as a smirk graced her lips.

"Ah yes, well, I shall have to check on my partner, who's currently missing in action. Lately, he's been closed off from society's whims, I hope he isn't trying to climb out the window and use the fire escape. " he laughed nervously. _Hopefully Jubilee fastened the latches like I told her to_, he thought.

He didn't bother knocking, the Canadian man would've growled if he did, offering comments that he had a hangover and the vibrations were pounding in his head and unless he wanted a pounding, he better knock it off...blah..blah..blah, insert death threats.

His stubby fingers grasped the brass knob and turned it counter clock-wise and pulled.

His eyes widened as he saw tissues all along the floor, a woman in a chair, slumped into a mess of despair. His heart ached whenever he saw beautiful women in need. "Ah'm sorry."

"No..no. You have a right to cry. Take as much tissues as you need. I'm not allowed t'use them since me being a guy..and"

He tried to make an off-colored joke, girls liked that, _don't they_? He stopped when he saw the horrified look on Hank, it almost made me grin in this desperate little ordeal.

"We'll have you on file and call you if anything arises, Anna."

"Please just arrest her, she's had it in for Remy for so long, Ah knew she was as sneaky as a sugarcane snake the moment Ah seen her." She cried again, tears and mascara making a toxic combination for the thin tissue paper.

She was led outside by Hank, who held her hand in comfort. Logan wrote a few notes.

_Anna Marie_

Mistress

Wife threatened them both.

He heard a scream.

It didn't take long for him to race to the door, while jubilee merely shouted, "it's fine..you're fine"

"You heathen bitch. I knew you killed Remy. Yah couldn't handle me satisfyin' him in bed and it got t'ya, didn' it? You bettah hope they lock you away because I'm gonna come after yah myself," the woman seethed, eyes glaring at their mark.

Ororo had good reflexes and apparently she had strangers who cared about her well being because they held the enraged woman at bay. It took all their efforts to drag her out but when they did, they seemed exhausted.

"What the hell. She was all superhuman strong. I knew I should've bought life insurance," Jubilee stammered. She needed some sort of rejuvenation technique...maybe a nap or a Monster energy drink would do the trick.

As a safety precaution, Henry had ordered security guards to peruse the area outside the building. He didn't know if that'd be enough though.

"Oh my stars and garters," he mumbled, opening the door to Logan's office. "I need a massage."

"I'm not touchin' ya."

"Don't flatter yourself Logan. You know that I'm too beautiful for a man like you to touch a gift like me."

"I hate working here," he said, earning him a chuckle and a serious tone from the favorite and highly successful detective. It amazed him how a man who had an IQ of 195 would be caught dead in a place like this, he should be at Oxford doing seminars on interstellar interaction.

"Don't stare," he said.

Stare? Was he fucking kidding. Was it April fucking fools because being located in Manchester and getting only the richies to stare at his demeanor..yeah, that was priceless. They always stared and judged and he...

Stared.

His eyes traveled from the displaced tiles to highly-fashioned toe-heel shoes, mocha-colored legs that seemed to be a mile long, a narrow torso, perky breasts, pouty lips, blue eyes, and...to top the sundae off, white hair. He also noticed the puffy eyes of crying and stopped his wantonly admiring gaze.

"Are you interested in taxi-"

_I've paid my taxes! Always like the rich to come in here with their pseudo issues and blame this place for not being up to par. Screw 'em"_

"-dermy"

"What?" he was confused.

"Are you interested in taxidermy?" she said, pointing to stuffed wolverines.

"School mascot"

"You don't look like you got school spirit," she said, causing him to grin.

"Despite them being weasels. They're tough,"

"Like lawyers," she said. The room filled with laughter.

"I was given the name wolverine for my interest in them,"

"Interest or fetish?"

"I don't swing that way"

"That explains why the girl out there gives you the moniker Wolvie. You all have nicknames?"

"Yeah, I've been meanin' to kill her, but she's the only person willing to work here. Me and Hank do. We call him Beast around here." He shook his head. This woman was good. Taunting him with her knee-length skirt and a long-sleeved sweater, oh yes, paranoia was coming back. She was not his friend nor an escort that he occasionally paid to...

"I did not kill my husband"

"I know about the deal.the settlement."

"What deal?" she asked inquisitively.

"How if you got divorced or if he died, you'd get a part of the company's shares."

"Is this what this is about? A motive to kill him? I'll have you know my family is already well set off. Look up files on N'Dare and David Munroe and you'll clearly see that we are in no worry of being in debt or in a financial debacle."

"Why didn't you get a divorce? If it wasn't about financial assets and materialistic items, then what was it? I've heard stories of the two partners in Worthington Labs...they're not above illegal activities."

"I don't believe in divorces. I thought I could change him, clearly I was wrong."

"If that were the case, why did Warren show me files of reports against your late husband? Does Sarah ring a bell? A 2003 case that was passed through, yet declined to reach federal level because-according to Worthington- you."

Her eyes widened, "What?"

**Hook, line, and sinker.**

* * *

Stained and looking for a way out of this mess  
The feelings and the truth are hard to confess  
But you've seen the cycle round now I guess you had me figured out  
So you watched me suffer,

it inched it's way slowly under my skin

* * *

He walked around the room, his fingers holding a small manila folder. The contents inside only being known to him.

"At MI-6 we call it Stockholm Syndrome. It's common in kidnappings. A young impressionable victim. Sheltered, sexually inexperienced. A powerful person skilled in torture, in manipulation. Something snaps in the victim's mind. The captive falls in love with her captor. It's pretty similiar to your situation. Obviously Remy wasn't the kidnapping type, but manipulation was his vice, and you thought you'd rather live with flaws than live alone. His criminal activities got to you at first, but slowly, slowly it enticed you, and you wanted more. You couldn't report the attempted rape cases because you loved him. Did I hit a nerve?"

"How dare you?!" she screamed. Slapping him hard. "How dare you point such

accusing fingers at me," her eyes widened, careful to not let a tear spill. _She couldn't, wouldn't give him the satisfaction._

He stood rubbing his face, stunned. It burned.

* * *

But I saw this coming,

when you started running  
Now it seems sensible to burn the bridge

* * *

"When I met my husband I was nineteen. He, twenty-five. It wasn't exactly a sin to date him. He was charming, kind, warm, but there was another side. Another side showed through early on in our marriage that I ignored. I noticed his eyes wander from my own, and lies began to write themselves like morning prayers," she gulped, continuing.

"I remember being in his office. I use to bring him coffee and donuts back then. I remember sitting in his seat or rather his lap as he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. It wasn't time for business, the office was closed, yet a man...a disheveled man pushed the double doors opened. He stumbled. I remember him smelling of alcohol, dirt, and tears. I stood up and he sat down. He said..."

_I gave my daughter freedom, but I taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a boyfriend and they went out to go to the prom. I gave her freedom remember, I didn't protest. He invited friends. they made her drink...they tried to take advantage of her and when she resisted, they beat her. I had to see my beautiful girl in the hospital. She won't ever be beautiful again." _

_"The boys were sent to trial after I filed charges, but one of the boy's father claimed an injunction and that they weren't present at the time of the brutal attack. He was a filthy lawyer. The police said they would look into the matter and find the real "culprits", but I knew...Sarah wouldn't talk about the case, can't say that I blame her. I just want justice! I know that this is a mere company...but I've heard of tales that the CEOs at Worthington Labs had powerful connections. Maybe you could...do what needs to be done. My little __girl." He pulled out a photo of the young sixteen year-old._

"I knew when to leave. Hearing this sort of talk made me uneasy. I didn't want to know what he was asking of my husband. I made a gesture to leave, but a hand pulled me back down to his lap. I wrapped my arms around the nape of his neck. "

"_Church Street... How d'you swing dat? Sounds like you abou' somethin', livin off of Church… Street. I can' wait to kick it… Aww, this here must be your daughter". __Remy grabbed the photo and stared at it, fingers casually meandering on the flat surface. They later rested on digital lips, lips that said more than the photo suggested... His eyes were transfixed.  
_

"_Prom? Ya know what dey say about a prom dress, don' you? She didn' come home did she? She waited all nigh' long...Next mornin', she had to throw dat dress in the trashcan by de motel, so dat her momma didn't see the…._

"_What are you saying…" said the man. It looked as if he was going to have a seizure with all the shaking he'd been doing. Never the man to cry, he was astonished to find water clinging to his eyelashes. Remy wasn't fazed. In was the role of fathers to see their daughters as a symbol of innocence. They'd think their little girls would always say, "No", but he knew that he could get them to say, "Oh, yes!" He smiled wryly.  
_

"_When I was her age, I had such a bad rep. Not da type dat goody girls would call charmin'. What wit' my priors and predispositions t'anger. Yea, she looks like all dem girls who made fun o' me. Whoeva tol' you dat I would 'take care of it' clearly was misunderstood. " _

_The man was resorting to sobbing and one of the three parties was disgusted._

"_Stop cryin'. I should rememba Church street, maybe call me up a limousine, and escort your baby to da Prom. " He licked his lips before continuing,_ "_I think we're done here"_

"_But.."_

"_We're done!"_

"I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was shocked and yet I stayed, I let his lips trail along my neck whispering those same sweet nothings.

"He continued his deviances, looking at girls who were far younger than the legal age. That dark side of his coming back at random times during my own downtrodden happiness. He never went below fifteen, but..."

She stared out to space._ That was just one of his flaws..._

"That woman. Anna Marie. Who you've barely asked her age, was only sixteen. I know fake I.ds and she's got a few. I don't believe in divorce and that's why I filed the complaints. I had hoped that he would get the help he needed or prison time to protect the community, but the man was right, he had connections. Files reached the local level, he would be jailed, and they'd reach the company, but not the media. No one wants to know of a potential statutory rapist selling them their luxury items. It vanished from the local tri-state area archives and he was released the next day. He never suspected me because I remained anonymous in my findings."

She stood up, her eyes meeting his. "He disgusts me...y-y-you disgust me." She pressed her hand along the glass frame of the door.

"It's only so long that one can live in the darkness before it taints them."

She looked at his motionless body, letting the tears fall freely before leaving.

He felt like a dick. And once again the case seemed to end in a dead standstill.

* * *

And it's just like you to say,

that it's better when you have things your own way  
Now I'm stumbling through my words

and it's all your fault  
So feel guilty.


	3. Eyes on the TV

**Disclaimer**_: _I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me. Oh, and I'd be rich and could have scantily clad men feed me ice cream I ate ice cream today, it was vanilla bean :o

**Genre**_: _Mystery/Crime-Drama/

**Back to basics:** This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.

**Rated**_: _M (perhaps for brief violence/horror) T for everything else.

**Inspiration**_:_ ice cream.

**My Mission**_: _**To get a beta reader for this chapter because I know there's some issues.**

**Characters**: Ororo Munroe, Warren Worthington, Logan, and more :o

**What did I use for appearances?**: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.

**Song**_: Vicarious –_Tool

**Reviews**_: _As much as I love completing things for intrinsic motivation, I'll discontinue the story and future chapters if I don't get feedback, regardless if it's positive or negative. Everyone wants to know if their fanfic is being read, so yeah that's my only way of knowing so please R&R!

-kendra.

* * *

Eye on the TV  
'cause tragedy thrills me  
Whatever flavour  
It happens to be like;  
Killed by the husband  
Drowned by the ocean  
Shot by his own son  
She used the poison in his tea  
And kissed him goodbye  
That's my kind of story  
It's no fun 'til someone dies

* * *

_"Aren't you worried I'm a policewoman or anything? Trying to set you up?..."_

_  
__" I spent the last week checking you out. You're legitimate."_

Fingers grasped the coppered LEEDA Logo as she stared ahead at the Polaroid pictures taped to the decrepit bulletin board. Crime scenes of marred corpses and other horrors engulfed the 4x6 photographs. "Too bad you didn't check hard enough," as her pointer finger ran along the engraved letters: F. B. I.

* * *

He had resorted to staking out. It was pathetic to say in the least. The sources dried up, witnesses had ceased talking. The case was closed, yet he was pulled once more into that little mystery that could only ensnare a crime. Death, or rather murder-if it was murder that is-, had led him to believe that the only two people that knew what truly happened was the victim and the killer(s) involved. It didn't matter how much evidence you collected or how many witnesses from the neighboring apartments saw 'exactly' what happened, it was all smoke and mirrors. Luckily, he was beyond such naiveté, he didn't trust the forensic team or lawyers, to him, they were merely people who went to school for far too long and simply majored in jargon and labels and couldn't see pass the inch of their noses. _He was the best at what he did_ and apparently that resorted in ….

"Stalkin', I'm fuckin' stalkin' her," he grabbed a thermos pitcher, unscrewing the nozzle cap that acted like a cup, and poured the brew into its small container, while staring ahead. The liquid touched his lips, it was warm. It tasted unlike what he thought he poured in a few hours earlier before he did this mundane activity.

"This ain't whiskey!" he growled, taking his glance from the closed curtains to the brownish red contents inside. _Clam Chowder._ Had he lost his nerve and in some other alternate time continuum, replaced his alcohol of choice to some New England tourist soup. Soup may be good for the soul, but the whiskey was better for his problems.

He turned the container over, finding a small polka-dot lavished notepad sticky that simply said, "Soup's more healthy," and a small, stylistic signature of Jubilee with hearts floating from the i. He knew that when he took the department version of the Hippocratic Oath to serve those in need and to resist judgment until judgment was due, would end up being his largest obstacle. Shouting obscenities, he began to formulate various methods of how to get rid of the nuisance he dared call a surrogate daughter.

Why stare ahead when there was nothing to see. He had done this for weeks. Logan had contemplated on the situation at hand. To let the case fall or to continue and fulfill the so-called promise that he owed Warren Worthington. He was fortunate enough to have her write down her address and phone number back in the first meeting, simply saying, "In case I needed other questions asked, routine check up after all". He felt like a teenager, a teenager who eyed the cheerleader that they fantasized about, but didn't have the balls to go up and start a conversation. He was the guy that beat those losers up, pushing them into walls just for the hell out of it. If his friends could see him now, watch as he holds up binoculars to get a better view, to catch anything out of the ordinary. He didn't hear police sirens, which was good because he'd hate to have old hags reporting him of so-called 'pervasive acts like peeping. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes straining to see anything other than curtain and a crevice that showed a place for pinups. This case was dead.

After she left his office, he felt like going after her, which shocked him more. His life of mistresses and occasional nuisances towards the few legalized brothels made him almost unable to relate to the trials and tribulations that a female would encounter. To him, they were merely beings to be used and discarded before they made their mark. He had learned the hard way not to trust them. He dealt his heart too many times and got it, in return, served back-battered and bruised. When they cried, he listened, he feigned the act of caring. He used to care, but not anymore, what was the point? He would lie in bed, next to their naked forms, pretending to listen as they nagged and created 'pillow talk.' If it wasn't sexual, then it was flirtation. He never met a one woman man, and he never thought he would. No woman was loyal because they stared, no, they gawked at others, they always had someone else in their minds when they were screaming out the name of their current lover.

Yet _she_…

Her tears seemed genuine enough. Even Anna Marie could've won a golden globe for her spectacular performance of grieving mistress. He had not believed Ororo as a person who was human enough to shed tears. She was gorgeous, yes, but with all gorgeous woman, you find that they are void of personalities or anything remotely interesting- "you screw em' and get rid of em' the next day, add them to your address book for future lonely nights," he remarked bitterly. However, when she talked, the way she carried herself, made her seem much more than that "Ice Queen" moniker he had initially given her.

He scoffed. For the first time, he was the one giving false labels and accusations, wasn't that the public's service to him? He sipped from the same thermos, unaware of its contents once more. "Fuck!" Jubilee was going to die. Fuck the department. He'd have to bury her somewhere that no one could locate, somewhere off the map, and he'd visit the epitaph every few months to talk about his day without it going awry or being misconstrued by the teen. He was joking of course, well, he was joking if this was the only time that his prized liquor would be replaced with grotesque clam chowder.

The source was dead. He eliminated her as a suspect. As soon as Ororo had told her of her husband's deviant behavior and, wantonly open crimes, he began to mentally cross her name off the list of suspects, which were few and far between. There was only another on the list, and that was the mistress herself. How could she possibly have any motive to kill Remy, other than wanting him to herself? He knew that couldn't hold up in court. His fingers pressed 3 on speed dial with a free hand, while another turned the key in the ignition and passed by the estate, unseen.

* * *

"What do you mean the case is dead?" Warren seethed. How can the upper state of New York, nay, the east coast simply knock the death, no, the murder of his partner, as an accident and a mere 'get on with your life' denouement to follow? He was outraged.

"Look bub, I ain't got no witnesses nor people to talk ta 'sides his mistress and his widow. You got any more people to add to the list for questionin' and I'll question 'em." It unnerved him that he had resorted to giving excuses. If he said the case was closed, then it was closed.

"You found nothing out of place when talkin' to her"

"By her, you're referrin' to who?"

"His wife."

"No, but she did tell me the nature of some of Remy's… shall I say, excursions?"

"What are-"

"As much as I love playin' a verbal game of 'Who can talk the most shit and make up idle chit chat, I'm gonna need some solid answers as to why this case should be marked as an 'investigation'"

"All I can think of to question is his father, Jean-Luc Lebeau, he lives in New Orleans, but if he found out of the murder of his son, he'd have a one-way ticket here within the day. There's also tapes at the office. Remy always taped conversations he had within the office. For legal concerns of course-a simple homage to the Watergate Scandal, aha"

"Got any enemies that might want to take the two of ya out?"

"Do you have a fax machine, the list is pretty damn long. So are we done here"

"You're still not giving me a reason to pursue_ her_ as a possible suspect"

"Did I mention she's –"

* * *

Don't look at me like  
I am a monster  
Frown out your one face  
But with the other  
Stare like a junkie  
Into the TV  
Stare like a zombie  
While the mother  
Holds her child  
Watches him die  
Hands to the sky crying  
Why, oh why?  
'cause I need to watch things die  
From a distance

* * *

Of the small compartment that could only be labeled as a stable, since there were four alongside of her, and four adjacent, hung a small placard. The placard could be seen throughout the department, throughout the building moreover. "Our mission is to protect and defend the United States against terrorist and foreign intelligence threats and to enforce the criminal laws of the United States." She laughed. She saw that placard whenever she walked through a door, passed a bulletin board of the 'Top ten Most Wanted", or even went into the work roomto grab a cup of 'joe' as the boys put it. It was ingrained to her. To stop vigilantes from criminal activities.

Her finger pressed on a button, the play button.

"I'll say. So the husband hired me. I made it look like that rapist from Upper Falls broke in and killed her."

"Did you...? I mean, you were pretending to be a rapist..."

"Oh, god, no. I'd never do that, I just made it look like I did. Believe me, it was pretty gross finding a used condom from behind that massage parlor on Knightsbridge Street."

She fast-forward it.

"Chris...wait, you're name's not really Chris, is it?"

"No, but it's the one I'm using for this job."

IT would be so easy to take the recorded cassette and hook it up to a dvr-cr device, uploading and synthesizing it. Get someone to cut it and add a few enhancers to blend it, till it was only him talking. The only problem was that she would be unable from having the crew of the F.B.I's computer fraud department from restoring it to its usual calibration. It would've been fine if there wasn't a certified body down at the county morgue labeled, "Remy Lebeau."

Had she merely given him the money, and "leaked" information out to the police that a man was going to kill a wealthy business man at certain coordinate points, then she would've been cleared. But that wasn't the story at all.

She stared at the table…the table that acted as a vestibule map for agents with her background. She would put thumb tacks on the areas of where bodies were found and would use rubber bands to add to the cluster. If it was a serial killer, they would be all in the same vicinity, a few miles from the radial point of the first victim.

She was still labeled a rookie, despite what she saw. The great ones aka the twenty-year service members in the field said she had promise, but lacked a certain, mechanical ambiance that was needed in this particular department. .

Her first catch. She picked up a small Polaroid, black and white for cost purposes, and stared at the gruesome features. In the picture was a landscape, a particular one being an abandoned train stationed that had been vacant for over two decades; the only thing to live there were the homeless and neglected animals. Apparently, something else moved in. In the center of a steel column, was a nude woman, nailed in the position of a gory cross. Arms and legs pinned by nails that were previously used to keep the tracks in place for Amtrak trains. It wasn't common, but it wasn't your usual gore fest that some of the "originals" had seen back in their day. However, there were other features that would make it that much more…horrifying.

It had been noted that the cause of death was starvation and infection. Usually, when victims were killed in such a manner-pinned in a T-like position- the trunk or abdomen would collapse on itself and one would die of slow asphyxiation or starvation, and that was if the vermin or other animals didn't eat at the poor soul that was still very much alive. A small incision, a few inches in length and an inch in width was cut, perhaps with a pocketknife, and the inner organs were pulled, ever so gently, just to attract the rats or perhaps the flies.

When the team got there, they had seen the appendages of toes and fingers gnawed off, from either a rat or a desperate small cat or dog. The poor girl, who they later identified as "Allison Crestmere," was coined "Mercy" in the work room. Apparently, after she had died, the killer or killer(s) took it upon themselves to remove her eyes and write 'Mercy" from collarbone to collarbone.

They spent many a night trying to find the killer, not realizing that that killer had killed before. He had murdered at least ten other girls, at least the ones they could fingerprint and identify, however, there were other charges pinned on his case for all the Jane Does. She still remembered the trial, she had to go. She had to see if her sleepless nights and her constant log entries would do the victims justice.

"_May I have your opening statement, prosecutor_"

"_Yes your honor, we are going to prove to the jury of the court, that this, one Cain Marko is responsible for unredeemable acts against humanity. We will be issuing witnesses accounts including family of the ones that were lost to "his" acts, as well as photographs that were given to our disposal. If found guilty to all charges of first degree murder, we would seek the death penalty_."

"_Any opening statements from the defense?"_

"_We would like to argue that Mr. Marko didn't act out of senseless immorality, but rather that he is suffering from delusions of paranoia and therefore, is insane. We will be using eye witnesses of his former employees and fellow co-workers. If found guilty with intent of insanity, we request the Darkholme Institution for the criminally afflicted, an asylum if you will, for his punishment._."

_Ororo had stood behind the pews, barely aware of who was sitting around her, it seemed that the air was thick with tension, thick with tears and hushed sobs of loved ones diminished. . . _

_She remembered being asked to come to the witness stand. She remembered raising her right hand and swearing to tell the truth._

"_Can you tell me what I'm looking at Mrs. Munroe_."

_She was a proud woman, someone who wore an exterior as a mask to cover her empathy, yet she had limits. She flinched at glancing at the picture. It was still gruesome, even when it was her who had to document the pictures, each and every one._

"_You're looking at pictures gathered at the crime scene of the latest or rather last victim, Allison Crestmere. Normally, you would see a criminalist here, showing you the pictures. However, concerning that this also extends further from United States borders, the F.B.I has to get involved, it also becomes our issue_."

"_What department(s) do you work in Ms. Munroe?"_

"_Violent crime, as well as organized crime_"

"_So how would you say the victim died in this case?_"

"_According to the coroner at the New York city coronary office, horrifically. The pain must have been excruciating, and it lasted for several hours, if not days_."

"_Is there any relevance of this victim and the others?"_

"_Well, according to the behaviorists in our field, every serial killer leaves a certain 'signature'. A signature could be something like adding initials or having Obsessive Compulsive-like tendencies so that everything is the exact same distance from another object…_"

"_Could_ _a collective word or meaning be utilized?_"

"_Like the word 'Mercy'? It's something we haven't seen, but yes, that too would fit in the category of signatures_. "

"_One last question: when you linked the other bodies found to the Crestmere case, what did you find that had similarities?_"

"_Well, according to the Mexican government, as well as the British chapter, the bodies were lacking eyes and there were other semantics like "Revenge" and "Justice" engraved in the skin, across the collarbone area_"

"_Thank you Mrs. Munroe, that'll be all._"

_It had felt as if a weight had been lifted. And everything seemed to be going fairly well for the prosecutor. The defense attorney had then called the actual suspect on trial, Cain Marko_.

_Oddly, he seemed relatively relaxed. Rather nonchalant, to the dismay of the jury. The prosecutor walked back and forth, a straight line, formulating questions to ask and in what sequence, persuasion at its finest. He knew he'd have to trick someone like that, into tripping over minute details that would turn out to be sequential to the case._

"_Why'd you kill those women, innocent women." He knew the defendant would refute, but he wasn't ready for…_

"_It was easy_."

_Shouting of obscenities and threats rang out from the courtyard, from the families that were still indolently still sitting there. _

"_Order in the court!_" _the judge threw the gavel against his podium._ Objectivity was key.

"_Objection!"_

"_On what grounds?"_

"_Of his clear sense of insanity"_

"_Over ruled" _

"_But why?_" The _prosecutor asked of the defendant of the stand, dumbfounded_.

"_Cyanide is rapidly absorbed from the stomach, lungs, mucosal surfaces, and unbroken skin," he said nonchalantly before continuing, "Effects begin within seconds of inhalation and within 30 minutes of ingestion. The Initial effects wold include headache, faintness, vertigo, excitement, anxiety, a burning sensation in the esophagus, and hypertension and vomiting. However…" His thumb and pointer finger grab a piece of lint that had vacationed on his suit, his only suit. He seemed perplexed by it, even rolled it between his fingertips before prompted to continue his tale. "Its later effects include coma, convulsions, paralysis, respiratory depression. I killed so much more without being noticed. Did you know cyanide is almost impossible to trace? You could only find it, if one was searching for it, and the only way to detect it, is the odor of almonds. Anyways, it only took more time for me to want to go to more drastic measures to get your attention_."

"'_Your?'_"

"_American Justice_"

_Everyone was silent, perhaps they were lost within their own reveries or trying to digest the cataclysm of information that spewed forth from the criminal, from the murderer_…

_It had appeared already in the bag._

"_Closing statements_?"

"None your honor," they both replied in synchronization

The audience breathed, as if they've never had the capacity or ability to with take oxygen.

"_Anything that the defendant would like to request to say before the jury is dismissed for deliberation?_"

"_May I request a helmet_"

_Everyone appeared to shout a "what?" in confusion, in which Mr. Marko was happy to answer_.

"…_to keep the voices out." He tapped an index finger to his right temple, as if drilling…_

_The jury was perplexed, they were shocked, and the trial had lasted eight months. Each meeting of the trial dates, Ororo was present. _

_The death penalty in New York had been thrown out a decade ago, yet the prosecution had specifically asked for the death penalty considering the depressing statements of the family and friends of the bereaved and the pictures, not to mention the agent who testified_.

_The judge stood up, straightened his robes, pushed the bridge of his glasses further along the ridge of his nose. "The jury found the Mr. Cain Marko to be guilty of all charges, he is to be given 15 life sentences with no possibility of parole--_"

"_I want to be given the death penalty_"

"_Shut up Marko_," _his defense attorney raged, pulling the man closer to him by the collar, as if he didn't know who the man was, what he did, what he could do…_

"_Every man has the ability to kill_," _Caine said, a small smirk gracing his lips, holding a certain neurotic essence to it, "but to feel no remorse, is a sin of monstrosity_," _he stared ahead as men, women, and children cried, perhaps for a mother, a sister, a daughter… _

"_I'd like my execution to be public and for all of you to see. It is through your hatred of what I've done, of what I'd do, of what I am that will cause you to turn into something that you abhor, me." His smile never faded, as he was led away by two guards towards the bus that would take him to the Stain prison, to ANSEG, to level four where they housed all those awaiting death row…_

She was transfixed by the picture, letting her fingers run over the victim as if in a small remembrance of her, a small attempt at hoping that maybe her death wasn't in vain, perhaps…

* * *

Vicariously I, live while the whole world dies  
You all need it too, don't lie

Why can't we just admit it?

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

It seemed like a beat rather than a courteous try at alerting someone that they made their famed entrance.

"You gotta eat."

"I already ate"

"Yeah, like yesterday,"

"Robert, I'm busy,"

"Oh, no. We're using un-shortened names now, sorry, Mrs. Munroe, I didn't know lack of sleep also came with rudeness. Excuse me for trying to be a friend,"

"Look, I'm sorry Bobby, but with… the death of…..this place, our environment. It's not exactly without its idiosyncrasies considering all that's happened."

Robert Drake, simply known as 'Bobby' worked in the adjacent cubicle of the building, adding to the humdrum of the place. His specific job was Cyber Crime, which meant working on computer intrusions, online predators, piracy/intellectual property theft, and internet fraud. He was all about jokes, and had even given himself the nickname "The :Ladies Man", a joke in itself since no one else called him that but himself.

"How about I pick you something up from subway if you want, after my DATE of course…"

"It's not a mannequin is it? I'd hate to think of my co-worker and personal confidant as a philanderer who does….odd things with dolls"

"A) dolls don't nag, they do what they're told b) no, it's with a girl I met, she's swell. I'm thinking of this pick up line when I meet her today, tell me whatcha think,"

She placed the photograph down with all the others. Standing to her full height of 5'11 and facing him, her eyes widened with interest. _This should be good_, she thought.

"If I were a pokemon master, I'd choose you,"

She couldn't help but laugh aloud at the remark. It was so cheesy, so weird, so Bobby. She needed this. "It's you," she said with a nervous smile. She hoped his date wouldn't ditch him.

"Yes! Thanks Ro. Oh yeah, the boss wants to see you, "

"What for?"

"You know Xavier, he can't go far without asking where his pretend daughter is and if she needs anything and blah blah blah," his right hand curved inward, forming a sideways v that began to flap like a muted mouth.

"Come on Bobby…"

"It's true Ro. You can't go far without daddy inquiring about your whearabouts and giving you the preferential treatment, you're a rookie, and I've been here for ten years."

"He thinks all of us as his children…."

"Yet, when it came to the reviewing of each and every employee last year I was on the cutting block, if it wasn't for you speaking up for me, I would've gotten fired. But let's not worry about bad mumbo jumbo. I 'm too happy to finally test my wonderful skills at dating!"

She laughed again. "Good luck Bobby."

"Thanks Ro. Oh, and you better go talk to Xavier or else he'll have my ass for this, and not in a good way either!"

It was good to laugh again. She placed her fingertips along the brass knob, turning it counter clockwise until she heard a faint _click_ of the door slamming shut. She opted to take to the staircase, not wanting to be in that elevator, that small enclosure with so many people, she shuddered.

It was time to see Charles Xavier, close friend, boss, and even father figure.

* * *

Credulous at best, your desire to believe in angels in the hearts of men.  
Pull your head on out your hippy haze and give a listen.  
Shouldn't have to say it all again.  
The universe is hostile. so Impersonal. devour to survive.  
So it is. So it's always been.

* * *

He had received a fax with all the list of the possible nemeses of the 'fantastic duo'. It wasn't a list, it was a fucking novel.

He ended up categorizing it from most threatening to least and decided to go to the highest and work his way down. Five a day. Ask a few questions, get a few phone numbers, get some tips here and there.

Luckily for him, the first five were all within the vicinity. He managed to talk to an Erik Lensherr, a loan shark, who had invested his "hard earned cash" into the Worthinton Labs and was never repaid, he had converted his two children Wanda and Pietro Maximoff into also loathing the two; Nathanial Essex, a man, who creeped the hell out of Logan with his wide chagrin smirks and guffaws at the mentioning of the Lebeau Murder- he was definitely on the watch list-; Victor Creed, a man who he instantly disliked after having met the man, it appeared as if he and Remy dealt with art theft and other stolen merchandise; and lastly, Bella Donna Boudreaux, a woman who had met Remy when they were children, yet the relationship turned sour during their teen years, and she still had a grudge.

He'd been driving all day, from one street corner to the next, and for what? For goddamn nothing. He had a few leads, but it wasn't nothing substantial. And he told Warren so.

"Look, I don't see what she has to do with it. That Nathaniel Essex and Creed seem a bit shady, but they all seem to have alibis, I'll look into it though. I still have some other people to talk to, including his father. Was he told yet? "

"No."

"It's been a month"

"Take it up with the widow."

"But didn't you say the coroner-"

"Dr. Smith-"

"Yeah, whatever. Didn't you say he said that Remy had put you on the emergency contact list?"

"Yeah what of it?"

"Well, since he thought so much of you, don't you think you could've told his father of his impending death?"

"Are you saying that it's my fault that Jean-Luc hasn't been notified"

"I'm not pointin' fingers"

"Good, do your job. I don't need your advice unless I pay for it, got it?"

"You done with the tantrum."

"Do you still want the videotapes?"

"Is it worth viewin'"

"I think so, " he said, his voice a bit above a whisper.

"I'm guessin' that's a no. Send 'em anyway. I'm crossin' Munroe off the list until you can give me more information…"

He pressed the red phone emoticon simply meaning, "End Call," and placed the cellular phone into the back of his pants' pocket, a stupid thing to do perhaps, but he'd like to see some punk try to wrestle him for a phone and end up getting their ass kicked with a lame ass story to cry home to.

_Meanwhile…_

It was something in him. Something in the pit of his stomach that told him to not let her get off that easy. It was that same feeling he got when he knew that he would be something, make his father's company more than just a humble abode with modest beginnings.

"Betsy!"

"Yes, dear"

"I need you to fax these to this number, they'll recognize it."

"Yes, Mr. Worthington".

* * *

Vicariously I, live while the whole world dies  
Much better you than I

* * *

Fingers grasped a small martini glass, shaking it around as the small olive swam and bobbed like a buoy in an endless ocean of clear liquid.

"This is Fox 11 news, giving you the newest of the latest events whether it be from criminal law to the scorching temperatures to the new fashion trends. Our first story is one that has sparked our interest as of late. The death of the young Remy Lebeau was proposed as an accident. The body was found at the bottom of an anchor belonging to one of his ships, the _Maine Street_, the Maine police along with the NYPD, when questioned, had said that it was merely the inability to stop drinking, and, out of drinking to such a high amount, he had fallen overboard and got tangled in its lines. However, it has now come from our anonymous senders that there was foul play and that a Miss Ororo Munroe, his wife and agent of the FBI's Organized crime, and violent crime department is being suspected as playing a part. Here at Fox 11 when we bring you the latest news, we will keep you updated on the story as it develops. Now, Tom how about these scorching temp-"

He dropped his glass, the liquid spilling on the fine Persian rug. His thumb pressed forcefully on the power : on/off button. Tony stark didn't like this at all, not one bit…


	4. If Looks Could Kill prt12

**Title: **_If Looks Could Kill_

**Disclaimer**_: _I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me. Oh, and I'd be rich and could have scantily clad men feed me ice cream I ate ice cream today, it was vanilla bean :o

**Genre**_: _Mystery/Crime-Drama/

**Back to basics:** This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.

**Rated**_: _T f

**Inspiration**_:_ Pop Culture and the Olympics.

**My Mission**: for you to root for the underdog.

**Characters**: Ororo Munroe, Warren Worthington, Logan, Tony Stark, and evefryone under the sun.

**What did I use for appearances?**: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.

**Quotes:**From actors or authors.

**Reviews**_: _R&R, please and thank you!

**Note:** Do to the fact that this is an insanely large chapter it has been split into two parts. I didn't want to upload it as two different chapters so I recommend that after getting through the first part, take a break! If you read it all at once, there's a lot of time skips and information that might overwhelm you.

-kendra.

* * *

"Please come in Ororo. How are you, my dear?" It would have sounded like any other conversation between man and boss, an obvious "how to pick up from the loss of a loved one" lecture check-in that employees received during a time of crisis. However, under that calm veneer held a hint of concern. Perhaps when he held her delicate brown hand in between his own, it also added to the apprehension.

She was a rookie, had only been in the Organized Crime unit for three years, and although it seemed like a lot of experience for someone belonging to the NYPD or the S.W.A.T team, the F.B.I was quite different. Ororo had the physical ability, as well as the intelligence to work in the field or in the office. He just didn't know if she could develop the emotional detachment needed to find disreputable men and women and their victims. He wondered if he wanted her to.

Charles Xavier was a widow of a childless marriage. Once a man who loved and had it all: from a profession he loved to a woman he loved, he thought he would never find that particular emotion again after the death of his late wife and the government scrutiny of his sector. His wife died of Leukemia and though not being a particularly religious man, he acknowledged that "the life after death" possibility was more welcoming-and comforting- than the last painful months of his wife's existence. After S.H.I.E.L.D, a more popularized and notarized government channel, gained a more "hands on" role over decisions that concerned the globe, but more particularly the U.S, they had put a damper on certain decisions made by the F.B.I. With great power comes great responsibility, he remembered thinking bitterly as he had to accustom himself to running decisions that were before, void of any other approval save his own, through them. He couldn't run an investigation, talk to the Attorney General, or any other government official without S.H.I.E.L.D telling him he could. Remy Lebeau and Warren Worthington somehow fit in that cumbersome situation. No, Charles Xavier definitely didn't think he'd love again or trust again.

Ororo proved him wrong.

When he had met her or rather when she collided into him, he had found her trying to pickpocket him. She was only thirteen at the time and he could tell that she had seen a lot, that she knew the life of squalor that could be only identifiable with someone who lived in the streets. Although she had that cool, icy persona, he knew there was another, a caring soul that often battled with the former, and often lost.

He remembered yelling after her as she ran away, her prize being zilch as her victim found her out. It took days. He'd often cruise around the spot that she had tried to steal from him, yearning to find her, to help her. He eventually found her through a private source of his, the good ol' fashioned newspaper. She'd been jailed for not only assault on a resident-she admitted that the man harassed her, of what or about Xavier did not know-, but also a battery charge against the police officer who routinely jaunted the area and picked her up. She had no money and couldn't possibly post bail to get out-juvenile hall wasn't befitting a girl so young and if he didn't do something, he acknowledged the possibility that that would become her second home.

He didn't know why he posted the money, had given her a ride, or even asked if she needed a place to stay. He of course denied being a pedophile when she asked; it must have been compulsory to ask if you were a young female and a significantly older man asked if you needed a place to lie low in.

What was only meant to be a few months at the most, ended up being years. He reformed her. He enrolled her into a private school and with great pride that could only be befitting of a newly-turned father, he noted that she was above anyone else in her class. And, although she still maintained that "holier than thou" goddess attitude, he saw the building blocks that would form a caring and unselfish individual.

He had wondered of her parents, but never asked. She knew Swahili and had mastered her fluency in English, yet he knew not of how she came to be without any parental guidance in her life. He never asked but she eventually told him.

* * *

"_We were walking through an alleyway. We had just gotten out of a play that my mom was dying to see. We had only came to America a few months ago, and my parents wanted to see the gaudiness that adorned Broadway._"

He watched her as she stared at the floor, crystalline tears mixing in with the polish of the mahogany floors. He never goaded her to continue, but she did.

"_My father said that he knew a short cut. He didn't see t-t-the muggers waiting for him. He would've gladly given him his watch and wallet if it wasn't for the way they handled his wife, saying with morbidity and possessiveness if she could be added along. I saw blood that day and I was spared by sirens and neighbors shouting from their window sills about the commotion. It was my 7th birthday_."

Somehow that alleyway transformed into a metaphor of being trapped inside without escape...it manifested itself into a fear of closed spaces- claustrophobia. She couldn't go down one without having an anxiety attack and over the years, it got worse.

It took hours to console her after that heartfelt admittance, but when it was over, there was a powerful bond that formed between the two. The only bond that was possible between a loving father and daughter.

She had brightened his life. It sounded lame then and sounded lame now, but it was true. His abode was lonely and dark after his wife died and faded into a welcome sight when Ororo was present. She had awakened in him something anew and somehow he gave her caring side more levity so that it blossomed into a hobby. Horticulture.

Small plants of many breeds like Hibiscus, Orchids, and Weeping Katsura adorned the house. And somehow she begged and somehow he acquiesced to her many pleas, to keep the things around. That's how her office was covered in green foliage, offering a safe haven for many co-workers.

He didn't like her studying for field tests and training to be a part of the Federal Bureau, he didn't want that life for her. But just like him, she was stubborn. He felt better knowing he was in charge of missions, well besides S.H.I.E.L.D. He tried to protect her by giving her the safest ones like embezzlement and money laundering. Ever since that Cain Marko case, she was drawn like a moth to a flame towards the hellish nightmare of killing and catching.

Charles Xavier sighed. He stared at the door that she had exited from ten minutes prior and hoped she'd be okay. He had asked if she needed time off, knowing what was to come: Remy's funeral was tomorrow, a public one at that.

Ororo stood against the wall, a small smile of serenity graced her lips. Xavier, though not being a biological father, was the closest she remembered to having one. She always kept a locket of her parents' pictures inside around her neck, and even added his own to the malleable heart-shaped trinket.

"Hey Ro. Sooo aren't you gonna ask me about my date," Bobby beamed. He saw her leaning against the wall looking so forlorn, the place needed cheerfulness.

"I guess I have to," she arched an eyebrow before continuing, "how was your date Bobby?" It was laddened with mock sarcasm and yawns. Bobby ignored the taunting.

"I got action," he grinned.

"I don't want to know about your sexcapades," she said, frowning at the images that popped in her mind.

"Geez Ro, get your mind out the gutter. We rented Mission Impossible III, Tom Cruise is the greatest actor ever!"

"You have a man crush," she said, laughing heartily.

"Do not!"

Their shouts of "DO!" and "DO NOT!" echoed down the hallway.

* * *

He flashed a pair of Armani shades from his pocket and rested them on the bridge of his nose, finding them resilient against the penetrating rays of the sun. He still had them on even after he entered the building. "One ticket to Manchester please."

The tone was courteous, polite, something the ticket woman needed ever since the decline in the demand for flying, an increase in lost baggage claims, and of course 9/11.

"Cash or credit?"  
"Credit card as always," he flashed a smile. She was lucky to decide not to call in sick.

"And when would you like to come back or is this a one-way flight?"  
"_The death of the young Remy Lebeau was proposed as an accident. The body was found at the bottom of an anchor belonging to one of his ships, the Maine Street, the Maine police along with the NYPD, when questioned, had said that it was merely the inability to stop drinking, and, out of drinking to such a high amount, he had fallen overboard and got tangled in its lines. However, it has now come from our anonymous senders that there was foul play and that a Miss Ororo Munroe, his wife and agent of the FBI's Organized crime, and violent crime department is suspected as playing a part._ "

He was suppose to stay in Maine and enjoy his time till he was called back to a career he'd been so accustomed to. However, that report showed how he often made little mistakes that posed as large problems. He'd take care of that mistake though.

"One way."  
"Okay sir. Here ya go. Enjoy your flight Mr. Collins. Oh and before I forget here's a survey, if you enjoyed your flight on Southwest Airlines and if the service was up to par, you know... the riff raff."  
"Thanks," he said, quickly seeing a phone number scribbled on the side, a phone number that he knew was not customer service. He began walking away and turned, casting her a smile, she blushed. Perhaps he'd look her up when he was done with business; it depended on other variables though.

While he waited, he went into a gift shop and bought a hunting and fishing magazine-why not take one of the hundreds that littered the place.

He read through the glossed pages and bookmarked what he wanted.

* * *

A woman had delivered them personally. She was slender and had the perfections of an international model or an American sweetheart. She had Asian features, yet also traits that belonged to the quote unquote "white" culture. Instead of flowing black locks, there was a cascade of purple. Instead of dark brown irises, there were purple ones instead. It was noted that Amelia Earhart had purple eyes so maybe they weren't contact lenses, besides with Ororo's features, who was he to question their source?

She spoke with a British accent and Logan concluded that all the men with power got the finest things in life-including women.

He watched her go, perhaps she had other errands to run for her boss, and found himself relieved he wasn't harassed with long winded questions from Hank. "I'll be in my office," he said to anyone that was listening-Jubilee was glued to the television screen and Hank was fixated on the newspaper. He picked up the four VHS video cassettes and headed into his ransacked office.

Thank god he still kept a VCR in his office. _This was fuckin' 2008 for Pete's sak_es."

Tape 1  
"I gave you an advance on the loan you requested. I also loaned you money away from Magneto Enterprises, when will I get my share back Mr. Lebeau?" The man seemed aggravated, perhaps it was the hunched shoulders or the fact he sat straight against the chair, hands clasped together. The marred features of age and something else made it look like the man was haunted by past horrors; his handsome features were layered underneath a mask of unrelenting abrasiveness. Logan knew the man. He was on the top 5 of the list Warren Worthington had given him, he deemed him one of the most threatening. He glared at the screen.

"Remy know dat Monsieur, but he's in a little mess right now. I just need a few mo' months homme," he said, his voice steady. Even with the poor image quality Logan could see the surprised look on the younger man's face as he was pushed against the wall rather unceremoniously. "Don't fuck with me Lebeau or my money." Strands of white hair blocked the man's face from any viewing of facial expressions, he guessed the man was pissed and he guessed Remy guessed it too.

"You'll get yo money mon ami, even double for da inconvenience..."

"I better, or else," he breathed in, grabbing Remy's collar before wiping it as if it was covered in dust, he smiled, "I don't want to hurt either of you. Just don't break your promise." Eric Lensherr left after that, his resolve covering his loss of control he exhibited previously.

Remy stared at the man's exit. He lit a cigarette and stood there lost in contemplation. Minutes later he would talk in short sentences usually with "yes" or "no" answers to the man named Victor Creed.

The sixty minutes were over.

It was onto tape 2.

Tape 2  
This tape was far less helpful. He watched unamused as the tape just covered affairs. Not money affairs but sexual affairs. It started out as kissing, but then again doesn't it always? Soon his duster and the no-named women were unclothed, wrestling on the desk, the floor, or the wall. If he wanted to see porn, he could've gone down to Harlem, not to mention he preferred girl on girl rather than girl on formerly deceased guy.

His wide pointer finger pressed the double » button, aka the fast forward bauble. _Why the hell did Warren think that this was important? Wait_. He had to rewind it. _Yes, there she is_. The blonde hair, the brown eyes, the delicate petite features of Belladonna. She had lied to him. She had said that they were friends since childhood, yet the relationship turned sour in their teenage years. This little portrayal definitely didn't highlight the two as teenagers, he was easily twenty-seven at the time. She seemed more like a burnt lover who was used and tossed aside.

Tape three  
The voices were muted this time and unlike the other two videos, this one was only twenty minutes long. It had that guy he didn't like, what was his name? Nathaniel Essex. The man always kept his face hidden, as if he knew where the cameras and voice recorders were located. The dread on Remy's face during and after the meeting definitely confirmed that he had made a deal with the devil and the devil came to collect.

Tape Four  
"Remy doesn't have long. I f-f-feel as if I'm cornered. Dese people seem as if dey lookin' fo somethin' more to collect 'sides money." The man looked like someone put a target on him, and fired away. His hair was disheveled and unkempt, his duster's collar was folded down on one side and flipped up on the other, and he was out of breath. Logan heard him mumble and turn towards the door before saying, "I gotta get outta here. Go on vacation."

"We got a problem," Hank said, turning to page 4 of the news.

* * *

"Flight 312 Now Boarding. Flight 312 going to Manchester Airport, Now Boarding." Tony Stark picked up the only thing he brought with him, the magazine he had newly purchased at the "HnF gift store." His wallet was conveniently stowed away in his slacks. He looked through the shaded lens of the sunglasses towards Gate 4. He was the first to load aboard the plane, yet the last to put on his seat belt.

"Before we set off for departure, we have to go over the flight regulations for the safety of us, the passengers, and the pilots," the three flight stewardess said with as much enthusiasm as they could muster. Two blondes and a brunette attempted to plaster feign smirks on their painted rouge lips- it was so mundane. "In front of you there is a pamphlet going over the safety procedures, if there is a dilemma with the plane." No one said "crash", no one dared. They continued through each section applied: first class, middle class, and coach. "On the opposite side, you'll find the same exact instructions in Spanish. The intercom came to live, speaking the Spanish equivalent, "En el lado opuesto, tu' el ll encuentra las mismas instrucciones exactas en Español."

They talked about when you could fasten and unfasten seat belts according to the signals on the marquee in front of the cockpit. They nagged on about if the plane were to make an Emergency Landing that oxygen packs would be released from the ceiling compartment, and it was imperative that you adjust the mouth piece before helping your child or spouse.

He hated flying for this sole reason. He had heard the safety procedures so many times that he might as well become a stewardess himself or a co-pilot. Once teleportation was invented, he'd gladly be the first test subject. It had been a full thirty minutes before the plane took off from the terminal. Luckily, his excursion was already paid for by someone else.

"Hello. Would you like anything off our beverages list? Unfortunately, due to the fact that we will meet at our destination in exactly one hour, we cannot offer you anything from our bar..."

"Do I look like an alcoholic?" he mocked being offended.  
"Oh no, sir--"  
He didn't think thirty was old enough to be labeled "sir", but he let it slide. Stewardess were never fun, well not "_never"_ fun.  
"Relax, I was just joking. Do you have Coke?"  
"Is Pepsi okay?"  
"I guess it'll have to be," they laughed.

He picked up the small magazine that laid dormant for a while in the back of the passenger's seat in front of him. He flipped it to the page he folded the bottom corner over. He glanced at the floor, a small ballpoint pen was idle on the marbleized flooring of the plane. _Success!_ it had ink.

**14" Pro Hunting knife**  
**Original Price**: 90  
**Retail price**: 67.50 (75 off)  
ships within 1-2 business days  
**Description**: one fixed blade knife with gut hook measuring a total of 14", used for extracting intestines. Bottom serrated edge is optimally utilized for stabbing the kidney for a quick kill, skinning, and easily removing the inner organs. An item that belongs to the inner survivalist, a hunter can't go without. The blade is equipped with stainless steel blades and anodized aluminum handles. Limited lifetime warranty. Gift boxed.

It was circled.

He thought she had gone away, to ask other passengers if they wanted condiments and snacks.

"You're interested in hunting?"  
"You could say that." He turned on the television and reflected how it was a relief to be in first class, no kids screaming, no parents screaming at their kids, and no cardboard blankets with concrete-like pillows. Something was playing, but it didn't look interesting, he switched to the news.

_"Who wouldn't like this adorable puppy, Cal?" the reporter said, while petting the 2 month old St. Bernard puppy. "I don't know Jill, it's definitely a keep--"_

"How could you do it?" she asked. Hunting was grotesque in her mind, it wasn't like they needed to kill defenseless animals for food, and there was such a thing as supermarkets.

He changed his focus from the small monochrome television screen to the stewardess. He stared at her nametag labeled "Janelle" or rather at her ample chest. She cleared her throat and his eyes met hers. "I'm helping the population," he smiled.

She shrugged and walked away.

* * *

"What you are asking of me is something I cannot fulfill," his eyes pierced through the blinds onto the streets below. He watched as men and women held picket signs and attempted to say all of what they knew and suspected to the news casters. The bystanders loitered at the base or entrance of the headquarters and most of them were reporters, less than half the citizens of Manchester. It was a quagmire.

His fingers trailed along the button that was used for connecting the speakerphone or intercom from his phone line. "Mrs. Munroe please come to my office."

She stood at her desk, pliers in hand as she bit her lower lip in concentration. She leveled the pliers at an upward angle towards the dead leaf and was careful not to touch the healthy budding flower. _Snip_. "Aha!" she said triumphantly. The intercom replayed the recorded message "**Shkk..Mrs. Munroe please come to my office. Shkk**." She sighed. Speaking to the boss twice in one day wasn't odd, but between four hours was downright uncanny. She would have to talk to Xavier about that. It hurt her reputation when no one could talk to her, feeling as if she'd squeal and nag at how they were treating her unfairly. And, they'd find themselves in the unemployment line.

She placed the pliers on her desk and walked down the hallway, noticing as men and women stopped their tasks to see what she was doing what he wanted from her.

She passed by the computer department, seeing Bobby mouthed a, "What does he want now?" before talk into the phone with a person he was obviously enamored with, "...and she copied your outfit? The nerve of her..."

She smiled and shrugged and walked on, trying to let Robert have as much time left of the breaks he barely got.

"My, my, four hours go by till Daddy needs to check up on his girl, must be a world record," a man said. He was a realist and many called him a down-to-earth or ethereal liberalist. He was in charge of keeping the equipment-including weapons- as up to date as possible.

"I don't know, Forge," she said, exhausted. His jibs still hurt though she was the one to call it quits.

She stood behind the door preparing her speech.  
"No need to knock," his voice interrupted her motion-her fist barely an inch away from the oak door. The door was slightly ajar, leaving a slit of space between the frame and the entrance.

"Sit down Ororo," Charles smiled sadly. The gallant courteous man till the end.

"I prefer to stand. I appreciate your concern, Goddess I do. You've been so caring through this mishap and..."

He tossed her the newspaper; it was already folded to page 4.

She read the headlines. "Honestly Charles. You know how the media is painted with lies, they're grabbing for straws. You possibly cannot believe what the _New York Times_ tells you."

"I do not."  
"Then why am I here?"  
"Ororo, I'm putting you on temporary suspension...until this whole ordeal blows over."

"What?" had she heard correctly? She stood aghast, eyes widened in slight horror. When you were on suspension, which was as worse as getting fired. In fact, it often led to terminating your career.

"I didn't order it. It was filed from a higher source. I foresee danger coming for you."

"I'm a grown woman, I think I'm perfectly adept at handling a few brainwashed pedestrians and anchormen." She sighed knowing that S.H.I.E.L.D was behind her removal, and that her surrogate father was not solely responsible for her untimely termination.

"How long do I have to leave the premises?" She expected 30 days like all other dismissals.

"It's effective today."

He tried to say something else, to plead with her that it was just a few weeks off, instead of an end to her place with the F.B.I, yet he knew that was a lie in itself.

She left. She didn't say anything; there wasn't anything left to say. The tears clinging to her eyelashes didn't go unnoticed by Xavier or by her fellow co-workers.

"Something got you down," Forge jested, surprised that he didn't get a comeback in response.

Bobby was off the phone and he, Forge, and the others turned towards Xavier's office, watching as the invincible man stared blankly at the floor. They all silently wondered, "What just happened?"

* * *

He breathed in the fresh air or rather the polluted combination of car and plant smog, sewage, nitrogen, and oxygen. _Ah, New York_, he mused. He promenaded down the street, avoiding the homeless as they begged for spare change.

"_Can you believe she's having the funeral public? The nerve..."  
"I'm glad."  
"And why is that?"  
"Because we'll be the first to film it."_  
The reporters laughed, ushering an "MSNBC" logo on their microphones. They resigned from their station at the base floor of the F.B.I headquarters, finding it a bust to get no commentary, save that from citizens that wanted to offer their two cents on the subject.

Tony grinned. He'd have to rent a night at a nearby hotel if he was going to make an appearance at an event that was likely to bring more than a few people.

* * *

She had resisted the questions of concern from Bobby, offering him statements like, "I'll only be gone for a few weeks, I'll be back" and "It's just a suspension, relax Robert. Once the media cools down, I'll be back", to calm him down and ease his fears and perhaps, some of her own.

She had stashed her plants and flowers in protective bubble wrap and laid them in cardboard boxes. She unclipped her holster belt and dissembled the AWC silencer hand gun, so that the magazine, chamber, and safety pins were separated. She managed to leave the office without answering any more pervasive questioning from Bobby or Forge or Christine...

With boxes in hand and the badge resting upon the furnished desk top, she exited the building, leaving everyone shocked and confused.

_**20 minutes later...**_

She climbed the steps to her Victorian home. It looked like it was under a million dollars, since it was rectangular, lengthy, but not certainly wide. Despite it having eight rooms, an additional guest room, and 3 bathrooms, it was disguised by its seemingly "normal" preface or outward appearance. The house cost 1,500,000- a gift of sorts from her parents, Charles, and Remy.

She pushed open the door; boxes towered under her left arm, threatening to spill over its contents. She stared at the only welcoming sights that surrounded the walkway and the greenhouse-like groves. Plants. Plants of various species and sub-species littered the house to make it an unconventional "Little Shop of Horrors" montage.

It was so ordinary. To come home, to eat, to write in your journal, to cross out dates that would lead to the fateful tomorrow, and lastly, to cry yourself to sleep. Sometimes, it wasn't in that order.

All the crossing out led to 24 hours till the event. It was 6 pm and tomorrow it'd start at noon.

**End of part I**

* * *

Part II

Church bells rang, choirs sang. No one stirred in the streets, it wasn't a Sunday, but everyone was in the Church-though not all were Christian.

"Ve are gathered vhere to pay respect to a friend, husband, son..."

Dead silence. It rained down upon New York, perhaps feeling the tension, the depression, the anger...

Within the center of the room laid a closed casket, flowers spilling upon the outer rim of the large construction.

Six pews on the left and right, which were split by a carpeted walkway division, were barely filled.

On the left: Remy's immediate family-Tante Mattie, a southern black woman, who was also labeled a Voo Doo priestess, and Jean-Luc, the father who adopted him. Their hands were clasped over each other's, making more of a contrasting hued layer. It was an act of consoling each other, an act they'd portrayed through their long lasting friendship, through the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Charles sat two rows behind them, staring at Ororo and hoping the damage on her psyche wouldn't be too traumatic. Bobby couldn't make it being caught in an immense workload. The sixth bench housed Warren Worthington, his face contorted in remorse and rage.

On the right: Eric Lansherr, Pietro and Wanda Maximoff-all three stone faced at the sermon being given. Nathaniel Essex sat in the center of the right side, a small smirk still on his lips, and Bella Donna Boudreaux was in the back, tissues in hand. Remy's last mistress, Anna Marie, couldn't go to the funeral; she had bought a plane ticket home to Mississippi, hoping to heal. In the back of the entrance or exit was the media, their microphones and cameras turned on. You could hear a pin drop.

It was then that the priest cleared his throat. Kurt Wagner hated seeing so many mixed emotions; it was as if it filtered into the air.

"His vife vould like to say a few vords."

He watched, slightly saddened at the desolate look in her eyes. It looked as if she cried to such extent that the very blue of her eyes filtered into gray.

She shakily spoke.

* * *

He was on time as always. Punctuality was key to good business. He stood behind various news crews like MSNBC, CNN, FOX, KQCRA, and international ones-Worthington Labs offered a lot of vending merchandise overseas. Tony Stark listened unamused at the widower's convictions. Biding his time.

* * *

He didn't say anything. He didn't think he had to. He wanted to give his personal apologies, but his career and his pride wouldn't let him. Logan stood appalled and disgusted as camera men and women whispered, "This is boring. When will we get some action shots?"

It had taken two hours and 15 minutes for the funeral to end. No donations were asked in order to transfer the body from Manchester to his home, the Bayou of "N'awlins.'" Everyone either seemed resolute or pleased with the aftermath. It was Eric who first left, closely followed by his two children, then Nathaniel Essex, who laughed as he walked away to the lonely abyss. Who was left in the end were the disgruntled newsmen, Warren Worthington, Ororo, and the consoling priest.

Warren Worthington's blue eyes focused on her. Focused on her fake tears and the way she wouldn't meet his invasive stare-his blood boiled. He said something under his breath before he turned and pushed passed the cameras violently. He scowled at Logan seeing him there and nearly bumped into another man: he didn't say sorry.

* * *

Tony Stark had taken it upon himself to meander away from the newsmen and women. Although they wouldn't know his face or identity, it was that certain closeness that he wasn't too fond of. He had managed to lean against a telephone pole, a mere few feet from the entrance of the church-no one seemed to pay him any mind. Yet somehow, somehow the infinite cosmos caused some guy to bump into him, the so-called "pretty boy" associate and founder. He narrowed his eyes, but didn't move, not until ten minutes were over and he saw her walk isolated and detached. He followed her, keeping a few yards in between them. It would've been hard following her had it not been for the white hair and her tall stature. He stopped, quickly cursing to himself as he saw a man join her.

* * *

"Hey...wait," Logan, the shorter person, wailed. Her long strides made her almost impossible to catch up with without jogging.

"I hope your satisfied, your little leak to the police cost me my job." Her eyes were focused ahead in slight annoyance.

"That wasn't..." she kept walking, walking as if it was just her on the boulevard. He reached out and grabbed her arm, making her coming to a halt though she didn't look at him.

"I wouldn't do anythin' that brass. It was Warren. I told him that he could potentially be endangerin' ya."

"I already got the caring lecture."

"Well, yer gonna get another one," he said sternly, surprising them both. "Anyways, I'm droppin' the case, so you're officially off of my hit list."

"What kind of "hit" list?" She arched an eyebrow seductively, making him smile though he had just gotten out of a funeral session.

They walked for what seemed like fifteen short minutes, though it was actually forty-five. They walked past the automatic gate, a gate that separated the wealthy and the upper/middle/lower classes-it made him uncomfortable: men washing their Lexus and women caring for their isolated Petunias all were stopping to stare at him in curiosity. The silence was deafening. They walked further. She stood at the top of the front steps, amused that the P. I shifted uncomfortably at the bottom.

"Well, goodnight..."

It was 3:30 pm.

"You walked for nearly an hour just to see I made it home safely?"

"Like I said, Warren blabbed and I was worried that some paparazzi might hurt yah."

"I doubt that a few camera lenses could be perilous to my health." People started being more confrontational, being so bold to say, "How was Remy's funeral?" as if she had done something morally wrong by talking to the opposite sex. She didn't answer their petty attempts at admonishing her. "Would you like to come inside?" She watched his expression alter from discomfort to mere terror. "For tea?" she added hastily: it softened.

"Perhaps another time. I have to head back to the office."

"If you're sure...?"

"I am."

They both offered their goodbyes, while he said his condolences, which shocked him because they were actually true.

Ororo watched as his figure slowly disappeared in the horizon. She went inside.

* * *

_George A. Romero -  
"I've always felt that the real horror is next door to us, that the scariest monsters are our neighbors."_

* * *

His figure was disguised by an archaic willow tree, its girth swallowing up his form and proposing that he might be a neo-classical poet; simply a man brought by the power of nature to draw in inspiration from all things natural.

He managed to avoid people's stares and implicit questions of curiosity because unlike the other man, it looked like he belonged there-a new neighbor who just moved in. The gate was easy to bypass, as soon as a Lexus or Mercedes left to their daily commute, he was on their trail.

He had waited for the shorter man to disappear before he came from the peripheral trunk.

He picked up his cell phone, hearing a line connect through monotonous ringing before a loud SHKK could be heard. His eyes saw her through the window pane, watched as she walked towards the refrigerator and crossed out something on a calendar.

"We have a problem."

"Yes, WE do."  
The phone call faded out.

* * *

_**The next day**_.

_Should he call or shouldn't he?_

Fingers danced a mere inch from buttons as eyes gazed at the calligraphic handwriting of two phone numbers. He opted on phone numero uno: the house line. It'd be hard, no downright obsessive to call her cell phone.

He fidgeted slightly as he heard a dial tone and then ringing. "Hello?"  
"Er." He breathed and thought to himself_, What the hell is wrong with you. Ya know English, dontcha?"  
_"Hello." He heard laughter on the end.  
"Hi, you reached the phone of Ororo Munroe, I'm away right now, leave a message." He let out a "dammit" at the inopportune moment of a _BEEP_, signaling the beginning of a recorded message.

"Yes, well. I just wanted to say hello and maybe meet for tea that you promised yesterday or dinner..." he mentally kicked himself for even pronouncing "meet" "for tea" and "wanting to say hello" in one sentence. He continued. "So yeah. If you like the idea, call the office and Jubilee will redirect you."

He was about to say something else, something along the lines of this being a social outing not a questionnaire or inquiry, when...

"We're sorry you have exceeded the time limit, please press 1 to re-record or press 2 to listen to your mess--"

He hung up.  
"I hate women..."

Hank McCoy was fortunate enough to be strolling pass Logan's open door and to start singing in a baritone voice, "We all want somebody to love. We all need somebody to love." He wiggled one eyebrow playfully, grabbing a hold of Jubilee's brush and utilizing it as a microphone. He barely missed the folder being aimed at his head.

"Aww Logan, why don't you turn that frown, upside down?"

Logan merely huffed, but Hank got what he asked for, a small smirk. It wasn't much, but it was _something_

* * *

"Er. Hello...Yes, well. I just wanted to say hello and maybe meet for tea that you promised yesterday or dinner...So yeah. If you like the idea, call the office and Jubilee will redirect you."

A feminine voice echoed throughout the mechanical voice, "Your message has been deleted. No new messages."

Tony Stark frowned at the recording message, it was so harmless and innocent that he wasn't sure why he deleted it, he just did. He walked slowly around the Lebeau home, taking in entrances, exits, objects. He had to make a mental map of everything and knowing that she was a part of the F.B.I, he had to make sure everything was exactly the same as she left it, well, almost exactly...there'd be an addition.

He had spent ten minutes lock picking the door, but that was way too long. It would take a few days to execute his plan. He had to go back to basics first. Hit man protocol after all.

He was very fortunate to bring his duffel bag, very fortunate indeed. Inside the bag held his essentials: pens, pencils, sketching paper, blue prints, notepads, flash drives, gum elastic, plasticine aka modeling clay, epoxy, polymer plastic, automatic glue spreader complete with pressure vessels, lighters, embalming fluid, etc. He pulled out the gum elastic and the automatic glue spreader and put it into place with the narrow opening. The insert tab that normally housed adhesive substances such as glue and liquefied tape now contained the polymer plastic. Although the mechanical device was primarily used for all water-based adhesives; the tiny brass knob was a substitute.

By rubbing talcum powder at the very edge of the key hole, he avoided it sticking to the alloyed surrounding.

In a few minutes the polymer plastic mold had done its job, by using excess, he was able to pull it out without any of it getting lost in the crevices.

He tilted it towards the natural light that shone through the window. Tiny grooves and ridges showed vividly-the perfect recreation of a supposed unique and individual key.

He placed the small 2x4 casing into a separated alcove pocket in the duffel bag. Whistling to himself a Billy Idol classic, Tony Stark began to sketch 2-D objects; of course they were drawn to scale. With duffle bag in place and shades on, there was only one more thing to do-clock timings of certain non-sequential events.

* * *

"_I can't stand the rain outside my window_," the voice boomed through the speakers of the small iphone, the ringtone almost diverting her focus from the parallel lines of the road. She glanced at the flat screen and expected it to be from Bobby, but was shocked by the unknown listing. _Must be the wrong number_, she thought

"Hello?" It was on speaker phone-it was the law to wear either a bluetooth set or talk on speakerphone in order to drive effectively.

"Hello?" the voice sounded eager.

"Mr. Howlett?" She was confused.

"It's Logan," he corrected before continuing, "I tried calling the house, and if you're not too busy maybe we could--"

"Are you asking me out on a date?" She stared at the idle phone as if it was him.

"Heaven's no, well, not Heaven's no, but I just thought that you'd like some company, yeh seemed as if yeh didn't have a friend in the world...not to say you don't have friends, but..."

The incessant stammering came to a close merely because she said, "How about Cable's Shooting Range in an hour?" which was music to both their ears.

* * *

_**An hour later...**_

He walked inside of the large building trying to distinguish between NRA officers, law enforcement, and the citizens of Manchester. The only difference was clothing and the fact that residents didn't have a belt for bullets, magazines, and interchangeable parts for hand guns.

He continued to walk while looking through windows as members clad in blue cotton uniforms with tiny shields on their breast pocket, shot at NRA targets. He found her. She stood in the middle of segregated areas with goggles and thick earphones on. She seemed focused and he simply walked towards her and waited till she was finished with round 1.

* * *

Ororo stared at the Q target that quickly moved along the roundabout line-a thin line that held various targets and moved them from one station to the next-and bided her time. The Q target, a target that was used by the FBI or DEA extensively, resembled a large bowling pin with a small x in the center, was all she needed to complete the course. Around the only Q card that moved every 15 seconds, were NRA targets (targets that resemble dart boards with points ascending as it got to the center), and B-27 Silhouette Law Enforcement Targets (a target that resembled the silhouette of a man, waist high with the center target at his heart). It stopped in front of the station right before hers and her eyes narrowed in focus-with only 2 minutes to go and only 15 seconds to shoot, it was now or never. She pressed her pointer finger against the trigger and fired.

Tiny red lights began to blink as a crescendo sound emanated from a small speaker. "Congratulations challengers you have completed the course." She took off her headphones after placing the small silencer hand gun down on the small desk.

"Yer a pretty good shot. Ever miss a target?"

"I never miss," she smirked while taking off the protective goggles.

He shifted slightly, attempting to find something to say besides the famous King Of The Hill line "Yep...mmhmm." Luckily, she spoke for him.

"Wanna get out of here?"  
"Yah spoke the words right out of my mouth."

They meandered their way through the building, Ororo stopping only to say a "Goodnight Boys" to the residents, police officers, and DEA's that were populating the place. "Bye. And go easy on the poor man, he isn't a target!" Nathan Cable, the creator and proprietor of the place, said. Once they were gone, he remarked, "I hope she doesn't kill him, she's a lot to handle."

There was a small restaurant a few blocks down that they decided to walk the way to rather than drive their individual cars. _Luigi's Restaurant d'Italia _loomed above them embroidered in green, red, and white of the Italian flag. Men walked passed and shouted cat calls at the woman by Logan's side and the protective part of him wanted to wrap his arm around her waist as if she belonged to him, but a woman like that couldn't be a man's possession. He watched as she rolled her eyes at the feign attempts at pick up lines and, after staring down her pursuers, he noticed she smiled at being away from the center of attention. It was odd, downright uncanny, that he opened the door for her, _She had arms_, an inner voice said, but somehow he was glad to do it.

She smiled and said a "grazzi" in return. He didn't seem the type to open doors, maybe kick them down and beat the hell out of everyone who looked at him wrong, type. They were led by a first generation Italian American, a man by the name of Vechionne, who had a mix of an Italian accent and a Brooklyn twang, sat them at a table by the window.

"It's lovely isn't it," Ororo asked in reflection. She stared at the pictures of Italian merchant ships, mercantiles, and Rafael-themed pastels of Angels.

"Yeah it is," he said absently, his eyes focusing on her delicate features. She blushed. A comfortable silence filled the room as each glanced over the menu.

"It's nice to go out again. I thought the F.B.I consumed my private life, but now..." she thought bitterly.

"And now you have free time?"

"Yeah..I desperately miss the part of always being needed. It's the dread of having nothing to do and just doing nothing that I fear the most..."

"What was it like?"

"What do you mean," she asked perplexed.

"I had a few policemen friends and as a private investigator, my case isn't always under my control if the FBI gets in charge and of course, they end up getting all the credit. What I am basically asking is, is the Bureau full of ass holes and uptight guys like we all think?"

She laughed. "I think with every vocation you have the select few who make the job a pain in the ass for everyone, it just so happens that more than a few are attracted to our profession," she joked.

"So how did you get involved?"

"While growing up, my dad, I mean Xavier, was always gone on chief business, before he became the supervisor of the Bureau. He was one of the best in the field. I remember him coming home at 2 am and you could tell he was exhausted, but there was something driving him besides pressure of society, to help mankind. He was so selfless that he became my model to look at, to aspire to. I don't know, I guess I thought I could be like him if I made it to the field."

He watched as her eyes widened at the altruistic remark, and although he knew nothing about her, there appeared to be something covert that made him yearn for more of a biography. He heard the mentioning of "dad" and as much as he liked to think that she grew up in a regular suburbia with Charles Xavier and his wife, he acknowledged that it was quite the contrary. He'd ask later remembering that when she was at his office, she had said David and N'Dare were her parents, not Xavier.

"Are you one of the few PI lucky enough to be issued a hand gun," she asked inquisitively.

"Yeah. Although I serve the rich, it's assuring to know I have a .22 caliber at my side, I rarely leave the house without it."

"Does it ever hurt?"

Was she speaking in riddles, he was really confused, and it showed on his face. Fortunately, she continued.

"I'm sure you haven't had to use your gun in a while, but surely you've had to use it at one point. I am, I was part of the F.B.I and I thought that by being given the most notorious cases of our time, I could harden and it wouldn't hurt so much, but..."

"It does," he finished for her. She nodded. He somewhat understood. "When I was in Canada, my home country, I was part of a select group of men and women called Alpha Flight, and in the beginning, killing people left me emotionless and empty. It took a while, but I became numb."

"I yearn to feel that same detachment; I'd probably do a better job if I wasn't so involved with the victim(s). "  
"It makes you human why wouldja want to get rid of that?"  
As she was about to say something in response, Vechionne returned after being shooed away by Logan every time he came to take their order.

"Bonjourno. Welcome to Luigi's, can I start you off with anything?"  
Logan was first to answer.  
"Corona not that light crap, chilled and the No 3 Meat Lover's Treat"  
The man was shocked by the bluntness and hard tone, but scribbled away. "And for the señorita?"

"I'll have a corona as well, and the vegetarian lasagna."

After he walked away to deliver the order to the main chef, Logan asked, "You drink beer, or more importantly, you drink Corona?" Was it church bells ringing or was she a perfect 10? If she adored ice hockey he'd be hooked.

"No I absolutely despise the taste, I'm a wine girl myself, but I will not become the designated driver after what happened last time."

He smiled, "I don't think that'll happen soon. I might get a little tipsy at beer #14, but I have an almost superb healing factor...what happened last time?"

Thirty minutes later they were laughing loudly at embarrassing stories that each shared, one being a drunken Ororo leading a crusade to the dean's office and using the speaker of announcements as a vocal diary of how Justin Spring1 was hotter than Michael Phelps2, and why. The other of Logan getting so drunk that he ended up at an ex-girlfriend's house shouting at her mom of how much of a man he was which gave him a nickname of "lil' tiger" from her family.

So here they were. After eating dinner, getting dessert, and each paying half of the bill (with Ororo being the advocate of that decision), they walked side by side just talking about all things trivial.

For the first time it was comfortable for them both. To anyone else they looked like strangers heading off in the same direction.

He walked her to her car, shifting slightly like he had done at her door step when he walked her home.

"I had fun," she said while opening the door and trying to balance the take out boxes.

"Let me get that for you," he said, not waiting for an answer as he took the boxes and opened the rear side door.

"My, you're handy, maybe I should keep you," she teased. He grinned.

They stood awkwardly close, blue eyes staring into gray ones.

"Maybe we should take it slow..." she said, her eyes staring at his shoes.

"Mmmhmm" he replied, clearing his throat. And like that she drove off, a small smile on both their lips.

* * *

1- A USA gymnast and my favorite besides Jonathon Horton, Nastia Lucas, Alicia Stone, and Shawn Johnson. He is best at High bar and parallel bars, and he's very enthusiastic. He and Horton cheer the team though they won bronze in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. He did not compete in the All-Around gymnastics event.

2 Michael Phelps- A U.S Olympian swimmer and what sports casters deem the greatest Olympian ever. He has won 11 consecutive medals and is going for a total of 8 in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. My friend is obsessed with him.

* * *

He began walking across the street, his car oddly enough adjacent to hers. As he began to unlock his car, the man also known as Nathan Cable remarked, "You survived, good for you. Didn't know a little man like you could handle a woman like that." He felt a twinge and a little voice saying to punch the man, but he merely said, "I guess I'm filled with surprises." It was five minutes later before he calmed down and took off to his upscale apartment.

* * *

A few weeks had gone by and the line between friends and dating became blurred, so that outsiders saw either affectionate friends or frenzied lovers.

He had gone to her home for tea and found that despite her being a good marksmen and a devout agent, she cared deeply for the living plant organisms. He even found himself helping her water them and found a few moments of peace for reflection.

They never did anything more than kiss and strangely enough, that was enough for him. He even invited her to his quote unquote "bachelor pad" that he spent the whole day straightening up prior to her arrival.

It seemed like an escape for paradise for them both for a while. Jubilee and Hank noticing his change and when Ororo met with a barely-free Bobby, he too had noticed how happy she was.

**At the Hilton hotel, in Rm 324**

Images of them together flashed in his mind. He flicked on a lighter and flicked it off. The investigator and the woman who paid him to kill her husband, kissing. He focused on something else. The small molding lay dormant for weeks inside the bag, which now found a new home on the carpeted floor of the hotel. He flicked his lighter on and watched as the melted piece of metal aka a United States quarter filled the mold. It was a total of sixteen quarters or an equivalent four dollars that he melted to produce an identical key. Despite what a locksmith told you, it was quite easy to make keys. Tony Stark got the idea from a friend who served in the Big House aka Holmes Penitentiary, and apparently, as long as you have the original key, you can make a molding out of just about anything -the preferred item would be prison-made soap- and melt any metal alloy to make a copy key. It was significantly helpful for inmates to get keys to rooms that were only used by prison guards and the warden.

So here he was, sitting against the end of the bed as his left hand held Ororo's new key against the artificial light and his right tapping against the hilt of the 14" Pro Hunting Knife.

He had clocked the timings of when she left and returned for several weeks. He was glad that after finding a headline article of her "temporary" departure, her job didn't pose as other problems when it came to hours away from home and at home. On average she left at 8 am sharp and returned around 1 before going out again at roughly 4 pm. At most, she came home between 9 and midnight. He'd have to make a visit.

* * *

"This the one, man?"  
"Yeah, that's the one."  
"You ain't no fish, are yah?"  
"Fish? What are you talking about?"  
"Fool, don't try to jip me. You look like a narc." Before Warren could say anything, he found a .37 barrel or the slang colloquial "gat" aimed at his right temple.

"Look man, I have money," he said shakily. His right hand slipped into his pocket before bringing out a wad of 100 dollar bills. It disappeared behind brown fingers.  
"Gotta have madd respect for a white boy like you comin' into Harlem. Gangs gone eat you up for breakfast."

Warren took the small handgun-obviously stolen-and looked at it a bit before replying,"This can't be traced correct?"

"Naw."  
"Thanks"  
"Mmhmm."  
They parted ways, Warren getting what he wanted and the guy selling stolen goods getting a more than decent price.

* * *

They sat there on the upholstered couch, Ororo's eyes watering. "_The fact is that Mary died that day. The hospital she was stationed at was in the crossfire from a German bombing and she drowned. David died the next day of small pox. I wrote the ending of them being together and surviving the war because they deserved it...they deserved happiness_." The movie _Atonement, _ended with a depressed Ororo clutching Logan's arm and Logan with a "life sucks, it happens" expression.

"How can you not cry at that?"  
"I don't know 'Ro, just can't."  
"Are you saying it wasn't sad?!"  
"Yeah it was sad, but so's the news, darlin'. Besides I only cry at really sad movies."  
"Like what?"  
"Fight club."  
She laughed at the incredulous ideal, "Seriously?"  
"It's just so..moving."  
"Any other movie make you cry? Like say Pulp Fiction or Rocky."  
"Rain Man."  
"What?"  
"Tom Cruise is amazing, but there's nuthin' compared to Dustin Hoffman's performance. You can tell that Cruise's character wants Hoffman's to understand him, to be able to comprehend what "brothers" mean, but he can't." His eyes began to water.

She smiled at him.  
"What?"  
"Oh nothing, you're adorable." He growled, which made her break into laughter. He feigned disdain up until their lips met and it felt like a jolt of electricity passed through them. She broke away, her body tense.

"Something wrong, darlin'"  
"How do you feel about me Logan?"  
"..." he was lost as to what to say. He merely stated, "Ro...Ororo, you're swell." He honestly didn't know what to tell her. It wasn't love, but it had the possibility; he personally thought "swell" was the perfect adjective to describe their complex relationship.

She somewhat understood.

* * *

_Friedrich Nietzsche -  
"What is done out of love always happens beyond good and evil."_

* * *

"What's your policy on honesty?" She treaded the water. Carefully testing barriers.

"It takes a lot to be honest, and it's easy to lie."

She breathed.  
"It wasn't an accident."  
"Come again?" He asked perplexed.  
"I was tired of the lies...the affairs... his illegal activities. I couldn't handle."

His eyes widened. And he tensed. _Warren was right_

She reached to grab his hand, but he snatched it away. Tears began to cling to her lower eyelids, building into a pool that threatened to spill.

"Please Logan...you don't understand."  
"Make me."  
"I hired someone to do it. Paid him too. I just...a part of me wanted him to stop his activities that weren't above manipulating judges, thieving, and ordering people to be killed. No one could help me, no one would, except Chris."  
"Chris?"  
"The hit man, but that's not his real name, just an alias," she said, knowing that he was silently asking, "Chris what?"-private investigator no matter what.

"I knew I couldn't change him, but I loved him." Her eyes looking off into the distance. "I wanted him to feel nothing...I requested it...I just didn't...Oh Remy," she resorted to sobbing.

A mixture of emotions passed through him, first was happiness, anger, resentment, disappointment, and then compassion. He should've made her sign a written confession, should've locked her up, but he didn't. He wrapped an arm around her protectively and waited till she stopped crying.

"You can always be honest with me, Ororo," he stated and she nodded.

_**An hour later.**_

She stood outside his door, her eyes glued to the floor.  
"Are you sure yah don't want me to drive you home."  
"No, I feel bad enough hijacking your DVD player," she smiled, he returned it.

After he said his goodnight, hugged her, and led her to her car, he walked inside of his apartment and stared through the large window, fingers resting on the sill. He watched her drive away and he had a lot of contemplating to do.

* * *

She stood on the doorstep, fumbling with her purse as she searched for her keys. "Aha," she smiled triumphantly as she held the small brass key under the porch light. She turned towards the door, but found that it was already open. She stiffened.

* * *

Miguel de Cervantes-  
"Fear has many eyes and can see things underground."

* * *

"Hello?" she said, goading the door slightly to allow her room enough to squeeze into. Her right hand instinctively ran towards her hip, usually a belt would adorn it with many fastenings for her gun and additional specialized bullets. She sighed knowing that she left it in a drawer in the kitchen. _Keep your wits about you Ororo_, she mentally hissed at herself as her eyes adjusted to the darkness-she dared not turn on the lights that would most likely, alert her attackers. She knew her house inside and out. In the dark she could tell where everything is, she could tell where walls were, doors, and furniture and if the latter had been moved. She walked into the kitchen and towards the counter top. Her heels elevating to find the drawer, she moved her feet slightly but fell onto something wet.

Like a man who lost his sight, her hands traced the tile flooring and felt something wet. It was thick, cold, and resonated a metallic odor-like cooled metal- and from the moonlight that transversed through the multiple windows of the room, it took on a silver color. Her hands touched soaked cloth. Her hands traveled blindly up to see just what she was touching, though her mind began to spin answers. Her fingertips ran against soft, plump flesh, against soft orbs, and lastly a hard ridge of a nose. She managed to stand up and flick on a light switch a mere foot from her.

Blue eyes fell on blue, red, and white. A man against the kitchen stove slump in a pool of blood that was still gushing from his body, staining the marble flooring. His eyes were still open-though he was post mortem- were of full terror. The pupils glossed as the vitreous liquid left them; he stared at her and spoke volumes. His lips cracked from the saliva and blood that usurped down the side of his mouth and added to the pool of his gaping wounds. A bloodied hand gun sat in his lap, the base being tarnished by the bodily fluid. A blood-stained white note was gripped in his hands now drained of their substance. She pulled it and read. "I'm coming for you..."

* * *

_Joseph Conrad-  
"There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery."_

* * *

Attention:if you hate the pairing, at least read the ending chp (chp 6), you read so much might as well stick with it  
Tbc

* * *

Barry Lopez-  
"How is one to live a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture but within oneself?"


	5. Got a Secret?

Chapter 5

**Title**: Got a Secret?

**Disclaimer**_: _I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me. Oh, and I'd be rich and could have scantily clad men feed me ice cream I ate ice cream today, it was vanilla bean :o

**Genre**_: _Mystery/Crime-Drama/

**Back to basics:** This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.

**Rated**_: T_

**Inspiration**_:_ intrinsic motivation.

**My Mission**_: _to have fans wondering.

**Characters**: the whole crew.

**What did I use for appearances?**: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.

**Song**_: Secret-The pierces. _

**Reviews**_: _with sugar on top.

-kendra.

* * *

Got a secret  
Can you keep it?  
Swear this one you'll save  
Better lock it, in your pocket  
Taking this one to the grave  
If I show you then I know you  
Won't tell what I said  
Cause two can keep a secret  
If one of them is dead…

* * *

"I'm on my way."  
"Logan what's going on?"  
"Can it Hank, I gotta go," he said pushing Hank to the side, which was a feat in itself.  
He had received the phone call late at night, an inopportune moment when in an attempt to contemplate what had happened in the last hour, he had found a safe haven in the office and received this particular call. Over the phone she seemed collected, even placid, but that was another extreme that some people felt when someone dies in front of them or they find a dead body-the other of course was panic.

He dodged Jubilee's frantic questions, she being the one called late at night to track down her boss.  
"What's going on?"  
"I can't explain right now Jubilee." His pace quickened, but she was unrelenting.  
"Oh come on Logan, you're talking and walking now, just summarize what just happened and why I was woken up at 11 pm on a Monday night," she pouted.  
"Listen kid, I really do have to check on her, but you will be the first to know when I get the full story."  
"Before Hank?" She stepped in front of him using her slender arms to blockade the door that was his main exit. He could simply push pass her like he had done Hank, but he just stared at her exhausted and aggravated.  
"Before Hank." Her arm was supposed to move, he was supposed to be walking towards the parking lot and his car by now, but he wasn't, he was still stuck.

"You promise?" she declared.  
"YES!" he screamed. The girl was stubborn and he'd hate to see what poor guy landed on her doorstep, well, he wouldn't see any guys near where she lived because he forbade her from dating; of course, that never stopped her. She was seeing some guy named Robert Drew or something like that, she'd often talk about how cheesy his jokes were, but how down to earth and sensitive he was. He was in his twenties and she in her later teens, he disapproved once he heard the number.

So here he was, walking or rather sprinting to the half vacant lot. Minutes later he was speeding down interstate 5, changing lanes to avoid the lag of vehicles. It was 1 am and the highway was void of police cars. He stared at the address Graymalkin Lane and he made a sharp turn. The gate was already open and sirens were ablaze at the roundabout. Someone called the police.

The door was already opened when he got up her footsteps, and he saw men dressed in blue uniforms and some in white. The police were surrounding Ororo, offering questions as to how a man got in her house, and why she was suspected of killing the co-president of Worthington Labs, and now his partner, Warren Worthington.

"Look I don't know how he got inside, when I came home the door was already unlocked and open. I wasn't here all day and I was gone between 4 and 10, I couldn't have killed him. In addition, I found a gun by his body and he was shot three times, he killed himself."

Men and women in white began walking back and forth, sideways, and vertical along the first floor (a few at the second floor) that was known as "The Grid" to forensics. One of the women of the forensic team spoke in hushed words to the chief of police, while holding filled plastic bags and bottles of various chemicals.

"It'll take a few hours if not a full day to lift prints and see if your alibi holds true."  
"What am I suppose to do?" She asked as she looked at the ruined tile filled with harmful chemicals thanks to the criminalists, and blood.

"If, and I do mean if, you are set free you will need to call a cleanup crew since neither the NYPD or the forensic department are liable to do that. In the mean time," he pulled out a pair of handcuffs, "you'll be staying in police custody."

Logan listened and he was surprised that she wasn't furious, perhaps she was used to dealing with police as an agent and even when she was no longer an agent, she held onto that solace.

"Listen. She was with me last night and before that probably at the Cable's Shooting Range," he said to the men leading her away to the squad car. The chief placed a hand on his shoulder and halted him from running after his men.

"That will be verified in due time Mr. Howlett, now you can go and leave the case, thank you." Short and to the point.

"Don't worry, I'll get you outta there," he yelled, but he wasn't sure she heard him.

* * *

When she was brought to the small cell it brought many memories back to her, most of them bad. She remembered visiting these often when she was younger, when she was so hungry that she didn't care who she stole from or who was looking. She breathed, _if it hadn't been for Charles_, she reflected. She sat on the small cot and closed her eyes, saying a small prayer in Swahili, "kwatuka msaada mimi 1".

* * *

1 -Goddess please help me

She rested her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes tightly. She imagined grasslands, landscapes that stretched for miles, and oceans that seem to be endless, to go on forever and engulf the earth, not thick walls that looked closer than they were. She imagined whites of all sorts that made things seemed bigger, not dull grays. She didn't know how long she sat there, rigid, tense in the muttering of short prayers. She was fortunate enough for Charles to have taught her the exercise, to focus inwardly on things that she would preferred to viewing or things that portrayed openness.

A police officer banged his baton against the black bars. "Hey black widow," he peered inside seeing her in an almost fetal position, "hey!" She looked up, taking everything in perspective, all the events that had happened.

"You're cleared. You can go now." As the bars slid passed the clutch allowing her a permissible exit, she was aware of the glowers and grimaces of policemen and women, all of them thinking her a cold-blooded murderer and labeling her a "black widow"-a double entendre of sorts. She wiped at her eyes and continued following the man who had set her free until she was in the lobby and face to face with Logan.

He stared at her face or more importantly at her eyes and saw that they were red, the only kind of red that suggested tears. Just like the first time he had seen her in his office on that fateful day, his eyes traveled down to the floor not knowing what to say. "You okay?" he said, glaring at the officers who held her for seven total hours. "If they did anything that was unkosher." If looks could kill, they'd be buried six feet underground right about now.

"I'm fine, just tired."

He understood that. After she stayed over at his house yesterday, returned to find a body three hours later, and spent seven whole hours behind bars, he understood completely. It was 8 am.

"Can you take me home please?" He nodded.  
They drove in silence until they got to her house, and she stared at it not as if it was a home or a welcoming venue, but an empty shell that simply barricaded her from the elements.

"Thanks."  
"No problem darlin'"  
"How can I make it up to you?"  
"Well..." he stretched, his right hand pulling out a blank piece of paper, "I can make a list...of course as a useful guide."  
She laughed. "Hahaha, of course. How about I make you dinner?"

He scoffed, "You might like disgusting vegetables, but I'm a REAL man, I refuse to eat soy and become another Richard Simmons." He was half joking, vegetables couldn't turn you into a homosexual, except broccoli, he despised broccoli it was as if those trees exploded in your mouth and tried to choke you with their deplorable taste. "I promise I'll make a meat dish and if you like, I'll use butter and lard for drinks, since you're so interested in saying 'to hell with health'," she smiled.

"I'm pleased now."

He had asked if she was okay one more time before leaving to go back to the office and help Hank with his work load or Jubilee with filing.

* * *

Why do you smile  
Like you have told a secret  
Now you're telling lies  
Cause you're the one to keep it  
But no one keeps a secret  
No one keeps a secret  
Why when we do our darkest deeds  
Do we tell?  
They burn in our brains  
Become a living hell  
Cause everyone tells  
Everyone tells…

* * *

She rested against the door. The odor of blood and a decaying corpse still hung in the air-the chief was right, neither he nor the forensic team would clean up the mess. The body was of course removed and taken to the mortuary, but the blood that stayed behind coagulated and became putrid.

In fact, it was attracting a few visitors. Flies buzzed around the cesspool of blood, perhaps laying larvae that would devour the nutrients and would further attract other insects.

She'd have to call cleaning services or do it herself. Perhaps she'd sell the house, so many people bought houses that peopled died in, unknowingly.

She trudged up the stairs to her loft and fell asleep within the first five minutes, images of the past and near future plagued her slumber.

_**9 hours later**_

"So that's it on the Vander case?"  
"Indeed. Thanks for your assistance, I was stuck between decisions of morality and ethics, thankfully you don't have that dilemma."  
"I resent that. I have that dilemma all the time, I just ignore it."  
Hank guffawed, just like Logan to offer a snippy comeback, he was glad to have his friend back. "So how's Ororo, I heard what's happened. Seems like horrid luck or finicky circumstances."  
"You know her Hank, she's resilient and often hides it and bottles it up."

A man walked into the room, his height measuring 6'2 and he demanded respect and attention. Chestnut brown eyes were hidden behind a red visor. His lips pursed together to form a thin line as he stared at a girl sitting in a desk, feet propped on top. "Can I help you?" her eyes focused on the television screen, giving him a good view of the news. _"Skies look great, which is hard to say for the east coast. It's going to be a perfect 80 throughout the week and just perfect for you beachgoers wanting to visit the coast._"

"I'm Scott Summers..." he looked at her knee length hot topic socks, leather corset, a plaid mini skirt, and two ponytails. _He'll just hire anyone_," he thought unamused. "...I'm here to see Logan."

"Logan!" she screamed while continuing to stare at the screen and listen to a report on Macy's filing for bankruptcy.

"What?"  
"Someone's here to see you!"  
He came out of his office, not having to be called on the floor to hear Jubilee's shouts.  
"About damn time. You said two weeks."  
"I believe I said a _few_ weeks."  
"Whatever, I don't need them anymore. I'm done with the case."  
Scott Summers was livid. His face flushed red and his jaw clenched, did the man know any idea what it took to get those files? "You're taking these files, and you're paying me for my hard work."

"What hard work?" he asked, though already reaching into his pants pocket to reveal a leather wallet. Sometimes serving the rich had its benefits.  
"I had to resort to contacting the African embassy!"  
"So?"  
"So?!" _did he just say so?_  
He would tell him how it was nearly impossible trying to find someone who spoke clear enough English that held birth records of every country in Africa that also extended to tribal villages, but knew it would fall on deaf ears. The only easy thing was finding small sources of finances and marriages from a fellow notary in New York City.

He pushed the files at the shorter man and turned on his heel. "I don't owe you anything anymore. I will bill you everything once I total it up."  
"Gee thanks," Logan declared sarcastically.

He shut the door of his office and sat down in the leather chair.

**Date of Birth**: 1/24/84  
**Born**: Kenya province  
**Mother**: N'Dare Munroe, princess of a local tribe.  
**Father**: Davis Munroe, celebrated photographer of Africa, Britain, and the British isles.  
**Estimated worth**: 26 million  
**Occupation**: F.B.I agent (which was obviously not updated)  
**Married**: 3/2/2002  
11/30/2001  
**Divorced**: 1/18/2002

He stared at the second date, obviously a list of descending order. His fingers grabbed another folder and he skimmed the long passage, finding what he was looking for.

**Date**:3/2/2002 to Remy Etienne Lebeau  
**Date**:11/30/2001 to Forge Aiyana  
**Divorced:** 1/18/2002  
**Reasoning**: grounds of adultery that she filed.

"_I don't believe in divorces_." He heard her voice clearly as he was in pensive state.  
He picked up the phone handle and dialed away.

* * *

Got a secret  
Can you keep it?  
Swear this one you'll save  
Better lock it, in your pocket  
Taking this one to the grave  
If I show you then I know you  
Won't tell what I said  
Cause two can keep a secret  
If one of them is dead…

* * *

Ororo snipped the leaves of the Somnius alluna flower as two small wine glasses sat idle on the table top. She slaved away at the preparation of dinner and wiped the back of her hand against her forehead, tiny beads of perspiration collecting **on** her skin. The ringtone that was once the depressing "The Rain" tune was replaced as "Don't You (Forget About Me)."

"Hello?" she said, resting the phone on her shoulder and leaning her ear against the display touch screen.  
"What? I can't talk now...-"  
"I know, you said it was urgent and-" a loud beep echoed from the oven that signified that it was time to take out the main course.  
"Look, I gotta go. We'll talk at dinner, okay?" she said, not waiting for an answer as she hung up. She grabbed two mittens and pulled out the baked lobster with cilantro-orange vinaigrette. "Perfect," she smiled triumphantly as she began to set the table. She set the large main dish in the center, a large bowl of quinoa salad right next to it. She didn't know if seafood was technically considered "meat", but if he didn't like it, she wouldn't mind ordering a meat lover's pizza. Two barely used candles were stationed around the dish and she struck a match to light them anew. To set the entire scene she added two glasses of Merlot. Everything was going to go perfect, she could feel it.  
_  
**45 minutes later.**_

She heard the bell rang and she opened the door. He stood there and looked like he had a bad day. "Come in," she beamed. She wore a simple blue cardigan and black slacks, a perfect model befitting the estate she lived in.  
He sat there silently, thinking of what to say, to comment on her food.  
"Drink your wine; I got it at the best vineyard around." He silently did.  
"Well?"  
"Well what?"  
"Did I do something wrong," she asked perplexed.  
"You tell me." He jabbed his fork at the fleshy white shellfish.  
"Don't play with me Logan," her voice began to rise. "I don't like games." She crossed her arms over her chest.  
"Okay, for one why didn't you tell me you got a divorce to some Forge guy, when you told me you didn't believe in divorce?"  
She drained her glass, now two empty ones stood that needed to be refilled, but wouldn't.  
"How do you know about that?" She squinted her eyes.  
"I looked at your files--" he said it before he thought about the consequences. She was furious; it wasn't the body language, but the silence.  
"I filed the request when you were still on my list of suspects, I just got it today." She loosened.

"Why did you lie to me?"  
"I didn't lie to you Logan, I don't believe in divorces...at least I didn't with...Remy."  
"When I said you can be honest with me, I meant it darlin"  
"I know and I won't ever lie to you unless I have to." He smiled, satisfied. It wasn't much, but it was _something_.

"So how's the food?"  
"Good, but I think I can do better."  
"You cook?" she smiled.  
"A bit"  
"You're definitely catering to my ever whim someday then." He smirked.  
She stared at the clock, it was at the 15 minute mark.

He continued staring at the white table cloth that began to turn gray and looked at his plate before him. What seemed as one plate, transformed into several plates that were all blurred. He blinked.

"What's?--"  
Clapping could be heard as the two turned towards the surprising and sudden sound.  
"You know when I asked you to seduce him I didn't think you would make him fall head over heels for you." Tony Stark rested a hand on Ororo's shoulder and leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, "perhaps I should be next?"

"What's going on Ororo," he slurred. He aimed for his gun, but found that his hands slipped when trying to grab it.

Tony Stark grabbed the empty glass of Merlot and canvassed it as if he was a wine connoisseur. He smelled it; it smelled bitter, yet sweet. "What herb did you use in this one?"

"Somnius alluna."  
"It seems like a large dosage." He flicked open the serrated edge of the 14" Pro Hunting Knife and walked over to the poor guest. "You know," he said placing the gut hook just above the man's jugular vein, "I was thinking of killing you quickly, postpone the pain," he began to roll the blade along his jaw, "but then I think how much of a nuisance you are and how you got in the way of everything. I heard that after ten minutes of unrelenting pain, the nerves become numb. Let's try that out shall we?" He started to press the edge of the knife so that drops of blood ran along the metal piece and the man's skin.

"Wait!" she said, standing from her chair immediately.  
"For what?"  
"I want to do it."

_"She was drawn like a moth to a flame towards the hellish nightmare of killing and catching"_.

She aimed the silencer at her target. She winked and it went unnoticed from one of them. She watched the surprise in his eyes as she pulled the trigger.

The sound of cartilage and bone breaking was loudly heard as he fell to the floor gasping. Blood pooled underneath him as he laid face down on the floor. He stared as they walked away, the image of her turning monochrome and then black. His eyes closed.

TBC last chapter up, ahaaaa

Look into my eyes  
Now you're getting sleepy  
Are you hypnotized  
By secrets that you're keeping?  
I know what you're keeping  
I know what you're keeping

You swore you'd never tell…  
You swore you'd never tell…

Only two can keep a secret if one of us is dead.


	6. A Trail Emerges, Three Disappear

Chapter 6

**Title: **ATrail Emerges, Three Disappear

**  
****Disclaimer**_: _I don't own the X-men, I wish I did, so I could have tons of money and I wouldn't mind if you sued me. Oh, and I'd be rich and could have scantily clad men feed me ice cream I ate ice cream today, it was vanilla bean :o

**Genre**_: _Mystery/Crime-Drama/

**Back to basics:** This is an AU. There are no such things as mutants, but it isn't a rosy world either. This is not a movieverse nor comic-oriented. It falls in between I suppose, the images for appearances have been taken for characterization for the plotline, whereas the names of the heroes/beings comes from the comic strip. Mmm. yeah.

**Rated**_: _T

**Inspiration**_:_ to finally finish a story. Also, if you ever see Prisonbreak, they always show the good and evil in each character so that no matter what, you'll end up rooting and booing for the character that you previously thought was bad. I tried to do the same thing, but was less than successful.

**My Mission**_: _to one day make a prequel or sequel, most likely won't happen though.

**Characters**: Ororo Munroe, Warren Worthington, Logan, and more :o

**What did I use for appearances?**: -I'll try and see if I can add them / via Microsoft Word.

**Song**_: none_

**Reviews**_: _R&R

-kendra.

"You're lucky to be alive," the doctor said, while holding up a chart. The nurse shuffled around the many cords and apparatus that kept the man alive, including oxygen tanks. She put something in the intravenous catheter, probably morphine for the pain. He winced.

He stared at the two forms he knew so well. Hank sat next to a cuddled Jubilee, half of her body being hidden underneath a hospital blanket-from the looks of it, it looked like they've been there all night.

"The bullet missed your heart by a mere centimeter, you're fortunate, indeed"

_I never miss_

"The paramedics were called after receiving an anonymous tip from a neighbor who heard the shot being fired."

He remembered her being an excellent shot and an even deadlier one with a silencer, and as the name suggested, no one could hear a shot being fired. He remembered seeing her wink.

He quickly lunged for the phone, getting protests from the doctor, Hank, a groggy Jubilee, and the nurse. He dialed the number of the New York Coronary that had links throughout the whole New York area of county morgues, and asked to speak to a Dr. Smith, knowing that he would be the main coroner to check Warren for the cause of death, including foul play. Did she kill him and stage this whole thing or did Worthington really kill himself in her house, his last attempt to catch her?

"There is no record of there ever having been a Dr. Smith within this particular field; shall I redirect you to someone else?"

He remembered the funeral, the _closed_ casket.

"No." He hung up.

"My stars and garters, I'm so relieved you are okay. What happened?"

"Oh no, Wolvie promised me he would tell me first!" Jubilee piped; there was no way he was going to give the juicy tale to Henry before her.

He acknowledged she didn't aim and simply hope that he died, she spared him. He turned his heart over once more and it was battered and bruised like never before. When he got out of the hospital, he wouldn't treat her with the same despondency. The hunt just began.

* * *

**Meanwhile, off the coast of the Cayman island, just south of Miami, Florida**.

"Are you thinking of him?"

She wondered which "him" he was referring to. Logan or Remy. Either way, the answer was yes.

She stared into the vast abyss known as the Atlantic Ocean as she heard the door of the cabin open and footsteps to trail towards her location. She heard sweet nothings in her ear, and she missed them.

Tiny tears fell into the water, making a solute of despair.

The part of Remy had died in that scenario months back, when she had to set this plot in motion. He'd never return to her the same as he did when she first met him.

"_You thought you'd rather live with flaws than live alone. His criminal activities got to you at first, but slowly, slowly it enticed you, and you wanted more." _

Remy wasn't greedy. But what belonged to him, was just that, part of his ownership. "No one steals from me, non" he said aloud, hands resting on the hips of his wife, his partner in crime. It was sad that his friend, his famille, Warren, had to get in the crossfire, but the trail of deceit was going on for long enough. Warren had said that everything was split 50/50, but the name Worthington labs still stood, not LW, Inc (acronym Lebeau and Worthington incorporation) as he suggested six years earlier during their rise to stardom. Tony Stark played the accurate mortician/coroner and since Warren didn't actually touch him those odd months back, he technically wasn't pronounced "dead." He went away for a while. He had known that Warren would leak information about the supposed 'murder' of his partner, but knew that a mere headline and a few circumstances wouldn't be enough to get her removed from the Bureau. Luckily, he had strings to S.H.I.E.L.D and was able to pull the plug on her career then and there. What he didn't expect was an actual P.I getting too close for comfort. He was preparing everything up until the investigator threatened the scheme. He had called Tony Stark to relocate from Maine and deliver his "expertise". It truly was a shame that Warren had to die though, and the investigator.

Ororo was the one to call the police after she stood at the docks -Stark was yards from her, but he too was caught up in other phone calls of his own, phone calls of business venture that he declined-and waited along for the boat. She knew that sooner or later Logan would come after them. "_You're definitely catering to my every whim someday then_."

She watched as Tony lounged on the lounge chair, enjoying the luxury of Remy's many boats, it was only befitting of him. Remy could have his trysts, but he'd always come back to her, he wrapped himself around her finger time and time again.

It was time to embark to Europe, Spain to be more specific, to start anew. They'd change their names, and do it all again. And they'd leave those who they owed money to and those they loved, behind.

_I won't be alone again. Ever._ A smile graced her lips, as her lips met Remy's.

-FIn

* * *

**So when I originally came up with the story, I created many endings such as:**

**Ororo ends up with Tony Stark, Remy remains dead**

**Logan was her husband, and Remy was the investigator**

**Logan wins (which he might in the sequel since as I was writing his character, I fell in love with him. I doubt the sequel will be written though or a prequel)**

**It becomes a 20+ chapter story in which Ororo and Logan are partners and she ends up with Tony in the end.**

**Beast has a bigger part but dies in the end.**

**Robert actually dates Kitty "Kathryn Pryde"**


End file.
